


Amareficus

by zigostia



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Potterlock, angst I guess?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-10
Updated: 2017-08-19
Packaged: 2018-08-14 07:24:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 36
Words: 100,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8003674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zigostia/pseuds/zigostia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fifteen-year old John Watson is a new and completely overwhelmed wizard, experiencing magic for the first time. Very soon, Watson meets another magic: the inscrutable enigma of Sherlock Holmes.<br/>John finds himself irresistibly drawn towards this new character. They are almost instantly inseparable—John-And-Sherlock, Watson-Holmes, the Detective and the Boswell, mystery solvers of Hogwarts.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Cake Is A Lie

He didn’t know how it happened, really. If you had questioned him the next day, even with the new knowledge he would’ve learned, he would still have to answer, truthfully, that it suddenly just felt…right. 

He didn’t mean to, honest. 

John had leaned closer, drawing in a breath in preparation. But then, a sharp stab of pain in his temple, and his eyes flew open with a rattle of shock —

And were immediately coated in layers of rainbow-chip frosting. 

John let loose a startled yell and stood up, stumbling, sneezing out the sprinkles stuck in his sinuses.

He slipped and landed on the floor with a thud and a groan. Getting up and barely managing to stay afoot, John stares at the smeared icing on the slippery tires in quite a daze. 

Irritated and wiping the icing off his stinging eyes, he then attempted to survey the situation.

… Okay, so the cake exploded. What the hell?

The original wax words  _ Happy Late Fifteen-and-a-Half Birthday!  _ were strewn across the table. John shook his head, once, dazed, and then uselessly wiped his sticky hands on his just-as-sticky shirt. He cringed, scraped the cake from his hands onto a relatively clean table edge, and allowed himself, once again, to catch up with the current circumstances. 

Clumps of cake crumbs, broken candles, and flecks of icing now successfully speckling the ceiling —God, he better clean this up before—

_ “What _ ,” a man’s voice erupted from the door. “Have you done?!”

Whoops. Too late. “Um. H-Hey, Dad.” 

“Oh,  _ honey,”  _ sounded another voice, exasperation clear in her tone. “What did you do this time?”

His parents thundered in, gawking at the complete disaster of a kitchen. His mother let out a helpless cry as her foot slid and gave away against the oily floor. 

John winced, made a guilty, cake covered face and paused, searching for words, words to explain what he too could not understand. He peered up at his parents from a lowered head and smiled weakly. His parents, back from a dinner that did little to diminish their current anger, did not.

“Er, there could be a small margin of error, but for the most part…” He dwindled off as he realised being cocky was definitely _ not  _ the way to go, shrugged, and, offered meekly,

“I think the cake exploded?”

\------

“And _ that,”  _  John murmured to himself once back in the safety of his room—“did not go as well I as wanted it to.”

His parents were fair, sometimes much more than some others, but “this, John, is much too far.” 

John huffed and frowned at the ceiling. “Like I’d do that on purpose,” he said aloud. Why would he waste a cake? And one he had made himself at that. He would never destroy it. He had even secretly scooped and sampled some smashed crumbs from the table.

John shut his eyes, felt the tugging in his gut, a fish on a hook, felt something  _ snap, _ felt the frosting splatter his face. But how, how did it happen? Was it an intricate prank? A bomb? 

No matter, there was one thing, he was certain: it was an accident.

But telling this to his parents was no easy feat. It wasn’t a prank, really, _ I swear, _ but no, of course he was now  _ grounded, young man.  _ (Which really wasn’t much as a punishment as it left John’s parents to clean up the entire mess.) 

Maybe they felt guilty, John mused.  _ Yelling at me on my birthday. Well, half birthday anyways. _

So John lay there on his bed, daydreaming, pondering, resting. The water from his freshly-washed hair soaked into his pillow. He flopped an arm to his bedside desk and checked his phone. 11:13 PM.  _ Might as well go to bed. _

And nah, he wasn’t going to brush his teeth tonight. Probably wasn’t even going to get up anymore. Too much had happened, too weird, and John felt strangely exhausted, even though he hadn’t done anything that would lead to that. 

Actually, he was _ really  _ tired. Especially considering how late he usually slept. 

_ Oh, what does it matter? _ John sighed, and yawned, and turned over in his bed, pulling the covers over him. He didn’t even bother changing. He already did that after the shower, gladly exchanging his cake-studded shirt for a crisp clean one. 

It’s been a weird day. 

With a confused smile, John shut his eyes. 

He had almost drifted off to sleep before heard the footsteps going up the stairs. Stirring lazily, John listened for the familiar treads of one of his parents, before suddenly opening his eyes, wide and panicked.

_ My parents don’t walk like that. _

-+-+-+-

Really, they don’t. John would know. He had heard their footsteps countless times, to the point when he thought he could probably distinguish it from a crowd of strangers.

His mother stomped, heavy steps thudding against the floor, echoing in John’s mind. His father stalked, amazingly quiet, a soft, prowling gait. 

These weren’t any of those.

John hesitated, held his breath. He began to get off the bed, but stopped halfway. He swayed a little on the spot, listened some more. 

_ Step. Creak. Thump.  _ A pained, muffled curse, a rough, scratchy voice. Unfamiliar. 

John made up his mind and bit his lip, creeping to the door, trying to mimic his father’s incredibly silent steps. He swallowed, hardly believing what he was doing, and painstakingly twisted the doorknob. 

And suppressed a scream when a face stared back, right through the crack. 

John let out a quiet, strangled gasp as a man cocked his head curiously, scrutinising John. He stepped in and John was too petrified to shout, make any move to stop him.

He shut the door, mockingly tipped his large feathered hat, and mumbled something under his breath. John’s spine tingled irrationally as something seemed to pass over his room, an invisible veil draped over, covering him and the stranger.

The man saw John’s tense posture and raised his hands. “I mean no harm, sir,” he croaked out. John opened his mouth and screamed. His lamp light flickered on without any warning. John looked at the bright light with an expression of pure, undiluted horror and screamed again.

The other thinned his lips impatiently, looking at the light with disdain, and crossed his arms. John screamed some more. 

And… nothing.

“They can’t hear you. Soundproofed.” 

John’s next shriek died in his throat. (It was pointless to continue on anyways—if they didn’t hear him by now, they never would.) 

“I… um, what the hell?!” Wide-eyed, John waved his arms in the air. “What’s happening? I don’t have any money! Did you already take my parents?”

The stranger shot John an annoyed look. Taking on a loud, rehearsed voice, he laced his fingers in front of him and spoke.

“The Ministry of Magic have been notified of a Blasting Curse tonight…” he glanced at his wrist. “Yesterday, at 10:38 pm. And now another charm, and 12:18 today. Fortunately no muggles were, and are here to view it and we will not have you expelled from Hogwarts. However this will be a warning; if you decide to showcase any more magic we will have to see to doing so. School starts tomorrow—sorry, today, so I doubt you’d feel it necessary to.”

_ Ministry of Magic, Blasting Curse, Muggles, Hogwarts…  _ the words bounced, echoed, around in John’s mind. Each seemed to cast a miniscule shock, a small  _ ding,  _ before fading away. Familiar, but somehow not. It was giving him a headache.

“I-I’m sorry,” he finally said. “I haven’t the slightest clue what you’re talking about.”

The other frowned. He squinted into John’s eyes and mumbled something under his breath. John immediately stiffened and looked away with a shudder. A sort of prodding, a chilling, invasive thing was crossing through his mind, and for a moment John felt utterly raw, exposed. He was quite relieved when it stopped just as suddenly as it started.

“Oh, dear Merlin.” The man shook his head in wonder. “You really don’t.” He wrung his hands, visibly bewildered. “Two charms, not a mistake… quite a late bloomer, I see. Sixth year start, that’ll be embarrassing… how’s it possible?”

“May I remind you that I don’t know anything about anything?” John snaps with a slight glare. “Will you  _ please  _ tell me what’s going on?” Becoming more agitated, he begins to pace around the room, back and forth, back and forth. “First I explode a sodding cake, and now there’s a stranger in my house who’s magically soundproofed my room and warns me of being expelled from, what, a warthog—”

_ “Hogwarts!”  _ the man barks angrily. “It’s Hogwarts, you insolent boy, and it’s damn near the best school of magic we’ve got around here.” He scowls, takes in John’s visibly frightened look, and sighs. “My apologies,” he then says in a much calmer tone. “I shouldn’t expect you to know anything.”

John looks at the man sharply, insulted, before looking away with a wry smile. “I suppose not.” He shuffles on his feet and raises his eyebrows at the other. “Care to catch me up?” He grins a little at this absurdity and extends a hand. “I’m John.”

“Greg. Greg Lestrade.” They shake, and then Lestrade smiles a little and clasps his hands behind his back. “Now, John, I think you ought to follow me,” he says apologetically and rather hurried. “Even a muggle-raised child should know the school year is beginning right this morning.” 

John offers a rueful smile. “I’m afraid not.” He shrugs. “Homeschooler here.”

“Oh, dear, isn’t that bad?” Greg looks rather awkward at this point. “I’m very sorry, John, this will be quite a shock to you but we absolutely  _ must  _ get going. The Ministry of Magic will have to take a look at you.” he angrily muttered something about paperwork, then looked back up to John. “I’ll explain everything along the way, promise.” 

“Woah, woah, hold the phone.” John raises his palms. “Now give the phone to me,” he adds with a smile. 

“I know your name, but I have no clue who you are, nor where we’re apparently going, or anything for that matter.” 

Woah, hold on, why was he so calm? Someone he knew for less than an hour was telling John to go with him? He should be screaming, kicking, lashing out, calling the police. 

But he wasn’t. He didn’t know why, but John felt… safe. It was like déjà vu. His stomach was settled, his heart was calm. Mind you, it wasn’t enough for him to agree to go with Greg, obviously. But enough so he didn’t feel the need to phone 911. 

His parents always joked John went with his gut and heart, not his brain. They were absolutely right.

“I know, I know,” Lestrade said quickly, softly. “I—Merlin, it does seem a bit suspicious, doesn’t it?” He breathes out a laugh. “It’s alright. I’m a muggleborn, too, I remember getting my letter, my first burst of magic—not as late as yours, of course—it was all very spontaneous.” He looked at John sympathetically, and chewed his lip. 

John looked back with a tilted head, wondering if the apparent sound-proof thingy was worn off by now.

“Here, tell you what,” Lestrade suddenly said with a nod to himself. “I’ll go back to Ministry hall and tell them what’s happened, then we’ll tell your parents, everything. You’ll get your supplies after the Sorting. How’s that?”

John pressed his palms against the sides of his head and closed his eyes. “Whatever you want,” he said gloomily, sardonic, too confused to protest. At least he wasn’t being whisked away to Hogwarts-Not-Warthog immediately. 

“Atta boy,” Greg said softly, with a crooked smile. “I’ll just be off, shall we?” 

Once again, he tipped his hat, and John choked out a shriek as he just… disappeared. Poof.

_ What is going on?  _ The question that’s been asked at least a hundred times since last night scrambled John’s mind. He couldn’t reason, there was no logic to this, but something in his gut insisted there was, and John’s head throbbed painfully, ebbing away before surging up once more, a tidal wave in the ocean. 

John shook his head slowly, massaging the pained temples. Maybe this was all a surreal, much-too-vivid dream.

He groaned, staggered to his bed, and collapsed in a deep, confused, slumber, hoping to get some rest, peacefully oblivious to the fact that, after not even an hour, he would once again be violently awoken by the mysterious disappearing man, not knowing the next wakeful hours of his life would be a whirlwind of explanation, of astonishment, of apologies and confusion. John slept, unbeknownst to the next morning, bringing him amazement, wonder, magic, how, very very soon, he would be whisked off to the Platform 9 ¾, and from there, be sent off to Hogwarts, a school of magic, where he would begin a new chapter of his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slow beginning.


	2. The Diogenes Ministry of Mystery

"You're a wizard, John."

Lestrade sure knew how to get to the point. It was the first thing he had said after he arrived back from who-knows-where, scaring the living daylights out of John, whose response to the very invasive awakening was to shriek and punch Greg in the face. Who scowled and healed it immediately. Which made John scream. Again.

This was all turning out to be a real exercise for his throat.

His response now to this incredibly spontaneous statement was to stagger back with surprise.

John, the “wizard”, cocked his head at the man disbelievingly. “Right, and you’re the King of England.”

Lestrade chuckled. “You know we don’t have a King, right?” He shrugged. “Nope. Just part of the Ministry of Magic.”

An attempt at an incredulous scoff. “Magic?”

“Yes, John, magic, and if you don’t believe me I could demonstrate again.” He mumbled something like “sure it’ll be fine”.

Giving him a skeptical look, John smirked. “Oh, yes, please do.”

Looking pleased, Greg grinned right back. He took off his large hat, plucked off the feather, and gave it a little testing wave at John. “Here’s my wand,” he chirped brightly.

John scrunched his nose. “Should’ve known,” he muttered.

“Mine’s concealed for safety purposes, so instead of a wizard I just seem like a weird old man with a ridiculous sense of fashion.” John snorted at this and looked upon Lestrade’s actions eagerly, partly convinced this was all a crazy scam, partly hoping (knowing?) it wasn’t.

“Well…” Lestrade mumbled, looking around John’s room. He uttered a cry of satisfaction as he spotted John’s gross cake-smeared clothing.

John watched dubiously as Lestrade walked over to the pile on the floor, pointed his wand at it, and gave his wrist a bit of a fancy flick. _“Tergio!”_

The cake bits floated off the crusted clothes and disappeared. Lestrade stuck his wand back into his hat, gave a little mocking curtsey with it, and put it back on.

John’s face contorted with shock. He ran over to the clothes, stretched them, felt them, looked through them. _Impossible._ He dropped them back onto the floor and wheeled on Lestrade.

“How did you do it?” he demanded, eyes wide. “It was an illusion!” he accused, even though the _magic! How fascinating! Of course it’s real!_ part of his mind was doing its usual thing again.

Lestrade patted John’s shoulder with a smile. “No, m’boy, not a trick. It’s magic, it’s real, and you’ll be learning to control it quite soon. Well, afterwards, of course,” he added. “We’ll have to see this through with the Council first.”

“Pardon me, what?”

Lestrade blew out a heavy breath before speaking again. “This is the first time something like this has happened; we’ll have to see what the Ministry of Magic decides to do with you.”

John frowned. “That sounds rather ominous.”

Lestrade shrugged. He did not respond, and the resulting silence gave John a moment of thought—a rather bad thing, it turns out. He looked at the clean clothing on the floor again, shook his head, and pressed his fingers into his eyes, hard.

He waved his hand in a _give me a minute_ gesture, in which Lestrade muttered something about time being vital but perhaps feeling pity for the poor overwhelmed boy and instead sat down on the floor quietly.

The gratifyingly long surge of adrenaline and surprise of which John had simply, as they say, gone with the flow and just didn’t have the time to stop and question things, had finally worn off, and now John was forced to just _think._

 _Right. So I’m magic, and I’ve somehow exploded a cake by, as Greg’s saying, “magic”, which is why he’s here. To take me to the “Ministry of Magic” where some “wizards” will decide if I will go to Hog_ warts _or… or what? They’ll kill me?_

_Oh, right, and I’m a wizard._

_What’s going on with my parents? Are they wizards? Do they_ literally _have eyes on the back of their heads?_

John gasped out a sarcastic laugh, because he just couldn’t grasp all this new knowledge surging around in his throbbing mind, and opened his eyes to find Lestrade looking at him like it was all he could do to not simply drag and teleport (which, as an apparent wizard, he probably could) John over to the Council this instant.

 _Maybe the only reason he isn’t is because he’s a Muggleborn, too,_ John mused, then realised with shock how easily the word Lestrade used— _muggleborn_ —rolled off his tongue. It didn’t even sound weird. Hell, to him it sounded more correct than some other normal english words.

“You done sorting things out?” Lestrade clipped out, fingers twitching uncomfortably near his wand.

 _“No,”_ John clipped back. “What’s going to happen to my parents?”

“Your parents,” he repeated with a bitter smile, “will have to wait.”

Drawing himself up the best he could (which really wasn’t much, I’m sorry to say), John crossed his arms and glared. “No, I don’t think that’s OK,” he said sarcastically. “I’m not going to just let you saunter off and take me somewhere. I don’t even know whether or not this is just an incredibly elaborate prank, in which case kudos to you, Greg, you’ve really outdone yourself.”

He looked at the other defiantly, refusing to waver, not even when Lestrade basically snarled with frustration. He groaned with exasperation, shaking his head to the sky. “Merlin, I’ll bet money you’re a Gryffindor.” Then, speaking in a low, rather desperate hiss, “I’m trying to reason with you here, so please, just listen to me for a moment.”

John scowled but stood silent. Lestrade heaved a thankful sigh, and drew in a deep breath.

“Look, John. You’re a wizard. You really should know it by now; you’ve exploded a cake and turned on this lamp,” he gestured to the lamp on John’s bedside, “with your mind. You’ve seen me soundproof your room and clean all that cake from your shirt. You’ve seen me apparate—disappear,” he clarified, then allowed himself a pause to see if John was following—he was, albeit a tad reluctantly, but nevertheless he was listening.

“I don’t know how, I don’t know why now, and I don’t know what will happen to you,” he admitted, “but as far as I know you are a wizard, you have magic, and if you don’t go to the Council right now they’ll be coming here.”

“W-what if my parents check on me?” John asked desperately.

Lestrade groaned out loud. “I’ll cast a sleeping charm on them!” he shouted just as desperately back. “We’ll be back in the morning at the latest, even if the Ministry doesn’t allow it. I’ll teleport you back here illegally if I have to!”

John snorted and flashed a grin. “Yeah, I get it. It’s fine, I’ll go.”

Lestrade nearly wept with relief.

“But—”

“Oh, what now?” he shouted at the ceiling.

John’s eyes flashed with eagerness. “Apparate me there.”

“Yes!” Lestrade yelled. “Okay! Let’s go!”

He yanked the wand out from his hat, causing it to topple off of his head. With a curse, he put it back on crookedly and prepared for Apparition.

“Oh, and, uh…” he mumbled, thinking for the first time of people’s first apparition experience. “Try not to sneeze,” he said unhelpfully, the first thing that came into his mind.

“Woah, wait,” John questioned anxiously, grabbing the other’s arm, also thinking for the first time that maybe this wasn’t such a cool idea after all. “Maybe we’ll just take a cab—”

“Too late for thinking twice, John!” Lestrade shouted rather gleefully. “Should’ve agreed sooner if you wanted to take a cab!”

He turned on the spot and then John was spinning away, unable to see anything, he was being squeezed to death, he gripped Lestrade’s shoulder so hard it hurt, and John was thinking _this is it, I’m dying, knew it was all a scam_ —

And then his vision cleared and he was in a whole new world.

\------

The supposed Ministry of Magic sure didn’t seem all that impressive. For all John could see there was just one lonely corridor.

Glancing at John and seeing his expression, Lestrade smiled. “Not impressed? I wasn’t either. Couple years’ worth of working here can change your opinions quite a bit.”

John looked over to Greg curiously, and then at the hallway walls, musing over how many secrets this small grey building could hold.

They reached a tall, towering door. Lestrade leaned in secretively to the knocker and whispered something John couldn’t quite catch.

“Come in,” droned a lazy voice.

Adjusting his hat for what John thought must’ve been the billionth time, Greg took a deep breath and strode into the room.

“Mr. Holmes,” he said deeply, with a small bow. “Here is the boy.”

John blinked and glanced at Lestrade, before turning his attention to the man known to him as “Mr. Holmes”.

He wasn’t very memorable at first sight, granted. His face seemed to be in a constant expression of prudence and brooding, his mouth drawn into a thin line suggesting of a condescending nature. His eyes were closed, fingers clasped together, in an expression of considerable focus and concentration.

However, when Mr. Holmes raised his head and opened his eyes, John stifled a shiver. The eyes were absolutely piercing; John felt similar if not exactly to the moment where Lestrade had did the thing with the mind-reading.

A part of him however knew it wasn’t, it wasn’t the trick Lestrade had done—that was magic, but this was not.

This man, John thought, could read people without any spell.

His deductions were confirmed as the man stood from his desk and strode forwards, spinning a cane in his hand. He leaned on it, cocked his head, and looked John head to toe. John looked away but didn’t move.

“Just Mycroft, Greg,” he said crisply. His voice was surprising quiet, low, and it gave John a strange impression of silk. He looked over to a very nervous looking Lestrade, and smiled a bit. “You really thought it necessary to Apparate the poor boy, and in such a hurry?”

“How did you—?” John began, until Mycroft interrupted.

“I’ve got cameras all over the place here,” he responded, and John thought it strange how, when addressed to John, his voice had that patronising tone that would most likely be his usual voice—except to Greg Lestrade.

And then when Lestrade looked at Mycroft for a split second, before looking away with a small smirk, saying, “Oh, come, you never need your bloody cameras. Go on, impress the newcomer,” and Mycroft grinned back, surprising sort of sparkle beginning in his strange, watery-grey eyes, it dawned on John and he tried not to smile.

“I’m afraid it won’t be a very good demonstration,” he said, turning back to John. “It’s quite simple, too simple, really. You look quite nauseous—though I understand your curiosity is dimming it for the time being—and, as well as how the feather is quite ruffled, Lestrade’s wand is stuck on his hat the wrong way around.”

Lestrade’s face took on an even darker hue as he took off the hat, flipped the feather, and put it back on with a sheepish look.

“So,” Mycroft then said, turning an eye on John. “You’ve had quite a long day, eh?”

“Tell me about it,” John grumbled.

Mycroft didn’t respond immediately, but instead continued on scrutinising John. Was he doing the mind-reading thing? John shivered at the thought and looked away nervously.

“I don’t use Legilimency,” Mycroft replied quietly. “Never needed it. I know things quite easily without it.” John somehow knew he wasn’t just being egotistic.

“I imagine Greg Lestrade’s frightened you into thinking you’re in for some horrible punishment for what you can’t control.” He glanced at Greg sharply, teasing.

“Er, yessir,” John said, unsure.

Mycroft sighed. “Always taking things so seriously. Anyways,” he added with a shrug, “I told him to so it was expected.”

“What, I don’t just… do everything you tell me to!” Lestrade argued feebly.

“Yes, you do,” John said back the same time Mycroft did. They shared a grin and John relaxed a little. He opened his mouth to talk, but Mycroft interrupted him.

“If you imagined the Ministry of Magic like this, would you have come?”

John paused and made a face, not speaking.

“Just to clarify, he’s not the only one here,” Lestrade chimed in hesitantly. “He’s just the boss.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes a bit before speaking again. “Now, Mr. Watson, I will expect you to be at Hogwarts by tomorrow. Today, you will break the news to your parents with Lestrade here.”

Greg started to protest again, but Mycroft turned his head and said _“Greg, you owe me”_ and he stopped with a mumble.

Mycroft turned back to his desk, and John took the opportunity to take a look around.

The room was quite big, but nothing too showy or flashy. It wasn’t very different from a normal office, and John couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed.

He watched on as Mycroft picked up a quill, dipped it in ink, and began to write. John resisted a scoff and smirked as he constantly re-dipped the quill, because since when were pens around?

“Tradition,” Mycroft said pointedly, before lapsing into a silence once again.

John huffed, not believing he wasn’t Legiliment-ing. “How?” he demanded. If Mycroft knew so much he would certainly know John wasn’t going to stop asking if he didn’t answer.

“Every Muggleborn thinks it,” Mycroft replied quickly, annoyed, before he continued to scribble, this time with an air of irritation that prompted John to stop asking questions.

If this was “the boss”, where were all the others? John quietly gave Lestrade a questioning glare which he responded by meekly shaking his head in a “I’ll explain everything later” way. Which, no offense but John didn’t really believe considering all the other questions Lestrade promised to “explain later”.

And then, after a very long, rather awkward silence, Mycroft finally looked back up. Wordlessly, he floated _(floated!)_ a fancy-sealed letter over to Lestrade. “Personalised letter just for you,” he said to John with a wink. John smiled weakly, thinking Mycroft should be the last person to ever wink.

Then the wizard settled back to his desk and give them a small, quick smile. “To your parents,” he clarified. “If they still won’t believe it ask Lestrade to demonstrate something. I’ll allow it. Although,” he added amusedly, “I can see he already has.”

“As Greg’s said, you will depart to Hogwarts afterwards and get everything after the Sorting. Now shoo!” he said, waving a hand. “Better hurry if you wish to get to Hogwarts in time.”

Lestrade blinked, then nodded furiously, then ushered John out of the room, where he shut the door with a quiet click.

John looked at him with a sly grin. “You like him.”

“What?!” Lestrade gave John a startled look before blushing furiously. He refused to say anything else in the manner, in which John grinned again and followed quickly, deciding to spare poor Greg and not say anything else.

“Come on,” Greg muttered, quickening his footsteps. “Let’s get this letter to your parents.”

John bounced on his heels a bit eagerly, happily grabbing hold of Lestrade’s arm. And so, with a twist (and a shout), they disappeared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My memory of Harry Potter is a tad rusty, so forgive me for any small mistakes in the details.


	3. Hitting the Wall (Or Not)

This time, John definitely felt the nausea.

When they disapparated from the Ministry Entrance and appeared on his front porch, John groaned and immediately staggered onto a nearby chair, pressing his fingers into his head.

Lestrade didn’t look very well himself, and he too settled onto a chair, collapsing across from John. “My bad,” he grunted, with a wince. “Bit, ah, distracted there.” He shot John a warning look, and even with the headache John had to grin. 

Taking a couple deep breaths, he sighed as the pounding slowly subsided.

His parents were still asleep, right?

John suddenly felt a stab of panic, headache rushing back with the alarming thought. He imagined them waking up during his little rendezvous. His heart thumped harder and began beating erratically; he had just went with Lestrade, in the middle of the night, without thinking of his parents at all. How panicked would they be if they woke up and discovered John gone? How could he have been so careless, so utterly stupid?

Sweat beginning to form despite the cool outside air, John took in a slow breath, and made himself take a look around the outside of his house. The garage door was closed. The lights were off. There were no police sirens, no news reporters, no crying parents.  He relaxed, but tucked that tidbit of wariness safely into his mind; he needed to be more prudent.

_ I will next time, _ John promised, and an indescribable emotion sunk through him when John realised there was probably going to be a next time.

And maybe next time, it wasn’t going to be just his parents. Maybe it would cost his life.

With another shiver, John reinforced the advice until it was etched into his thoughts. He would think things through from now on. He had to.

John swallowed, set his jaw, and glanced at Greg Lestrade who nodded and got up. 

Greg approached the doorway, drawing out his feather/wand, and whispered something like  _ Alohomora. _ There was a very quiet clicking noise, and Greg then gently turned the knob and opened the door. 

Wide-eyed, John gesticulated to the door wildly, of which the older wizard smiled and nodded with an infuriating calm. John shook his head, violently, despite the things it was doing to his headache, and opened his mouth before slowly shutting it again with yet another glare.

He added it to his rapidly growing list of things-Greg-had-better-explain-soon.

John blew out a soft breath, wondering how to approach this without his parents murdering both of them.

\------

“Well, that,” Greg breathed, “did not go as well as I expected it to.”

John couldn’t help but laugh. “A lot of things don’t.”

As John had guessed from the calm outside of the house, his parents were (very thankfully) still asleep. After an awkward awakening, John had tried to explain things the best he could (he too was still just the teensiest bit wary, but, c’mon, he had just teleported twice; was that not magic?)

It took some effort for his parents not to dial up the cops immediately, when catching sight of Greg, shuffling on his feet and clutching a weird feather-wand, but John had finally managed to convince them.  As Mycroft had predicted (which, obviously had come true, John thought) Greg, to demonstrate, had cast a small floating charm on a nearby vase. Which John’s father immediately smashed, declaring it “cursed”. Which Lestrade enjoyed much too much than he should’ve.

In a couple moments’ time there were way too many smashed objects scattered around the house.

Eventually John had to intervene with an exasperated, “Of course you’re then saying that I’ve been living in a cursed haunted house for the last fifteen years. If you let me do that, you’ll certainly allow me to learn some magic.”

His parents then paused, before shaking their heads and breaking off in a chuckle. 

“Oh, John,” said his mother, “you always had  _ such  _ an overactive imagination. I suppose it shouldn’t be a surprise that one them came out to be true.”

Moments later, with another dozen cleaning spells (“Oh, look, our ghost's guilty now”) John and Lestrade sat across from two visibly shaken and pale parents and discussed this subject over some warm tea and biscuits.

\------

“So what you’re saying is, John is somehow a wizard, a ‘muggleborn’ as you called it, and that he’s a very late bloomer and will now attend, what, wartho—”

_ “Hogwarts!” _ John and Lestrade said at the same time, and they shared a grin.

“Right, Hogwarts,” his dad corrected, “for one year only, to learn some magic spells.”

“Yep,” Lestrade chirped. “Here’s a letter as well.” He floated over the letter and John’s father took it with a startled look. 

“Yes, dad, the letter’s cursed, too,” John said, rolling his eyes.

His dad gave him a friendly glare before opening the letter carefully. Scanning it, he shook his head and looked at Greg with much bemused accuse.

“Has the so-called ‘Ministry of Magic’ been spying on us? Whoever wrote this is one hell of an interpreter.”

John laughed weakly and sent a silence curse to Mycroft.

“You want us to send John to… train station 9 and three-quarters?” John’s mother, who had picked up a train ticket that had fell out of the envelope, asked incredulously.

“Er, yes,” Lestrade replied.

There was an awkward silence. This was new information to John as well, who sent Lestrade the same look that was being sent from his parents.

“I-it’s complicated, granted,” Lestrade finally said. “You two are allowed there; you can see to it yourself.”

“... Right,” said his dad. 

John fiddled with his cup of lukewarm tea, gulping it down. He knew his parents were really lenient. He just hoped they were lenient enough, because they had to be pretty cool to let John do this.

His parents took a moment for thought.

“So magic’s real.”

“As I’ve been trying to say for the past hours, yes.”

“And John’s going to Hogwarts.”

“Yes,” said John firmly.

His dad, his awesome dad, burst into a grin. “Well, why the hell not?”

\------

Lestrade had suggested John to get some rest, but to be honest John had the power of a thousand brilliant suns coursing through him. He could barely sit still.

It had gone full circle—shock, bewilderment, exhaustion, acceptance, and now excitement again. It was, what, four? John didn’t know, didn’t care. Magic was real. He was magic! 

A giddy, rather hysterical laugh bubbled out of him, and he squirmed in his seat.

His parents had drawn Greg Lestrade aside for a “private chat”—possibly (and probably) more prodding, magic demos, explanations, and making sure he wasn’t a serial killer. They had, too, agreed with him with the suggestion to sleep. 

John snorted. Like that was going to happen.

He walked over to the side of his bed and picked up the pile of clothes he had earlier thrown on the floor with disbelief. Now picking them up and folding them carefully, John placed the pile on his bed and started looking for a suitcase.

He placed his hands on his hips dramatically and scanned the room with a frown. What to pack.

Clothes. Food? Money? 

His old, worn-out dragon stuffie? John grinned to himself and gave the toy a small pat on its fuzzy head before leaving it on its shelf. He hummed to himself a bit, feeling oddly happy, remembering when he’d fall asleep cuddling it every night, even when one of its ears were partly torn. He looked back at the dragon and touched the broken ear gently, and with a wave of nostalgia.

The ear healed.

The cotton wove itself back together, stitching the fabric, until the little felt corner was as good as new.

John gaped and stared. Then he felt a rush of adrenaline and with great willpower sat down on his bed. There was no denying it—everything was true.  _ God, if this is a dream, please don’t wake me up. _

John changed his mind and picked up the newly-healed stuffie, placing it in his suitcase. A reminder.

He sighed and grinned.

Morning couldn’t come fast enough.

\------

This time, John and Greg Lestrade both insisted they take a cab.

They arrived at the station, John dragging his suitcase behind him and walking faster than anyone else, up to the brim with anticipation. 

His footsteps slowed, however, as they reached platform 9. John craned his neck, standing on his toes, a frown appearing on his face. Platform nine—he looked past it—platform 10. 

Lestrade continued walking, with a sort of blase confidence. His parents swiveled their heads around, slowing as well. John stopped completely. 

Looking back and noticing for the first time, Lestrade saw everyone’s bewilderment and laughed. “Don’t worry, just follow me,” he called out over his shoulder, as he continued to walk straight towards a brick wall.

His dad theatrically whispered to John,  _ “I think he’s crazy.” _

“Aw, well, let’s just play along,” John said with an eye-roll and a grin, and walked towards Greg Lestrade. His parents sighed and looked at each other with that same-old, familiar look parents give each other, before following.

As the group arrived at the wall, Greg Lestrade rubbed his hands together with satisfaction. “Alright. Now, John, this may seem a Tad Strange to you, but I need you to run through this wall.”

There was a near comical silence. John’s parents frowned, wrinkled their brows, and looked at Lestrade as if their suspicions were confirmed—as did John, who was starting to drift towards that conclusion as well. He looked at Lestrade to see if he was joking—he wasn’t.

“Er—you want me to run into these bricks?” John gestured to the wall with a questioning gaze. Lestrade paused before nodding once.

“Yes, run through.”

“Run?” John echoed.

“Yes,” Lestrade said again, trying not make this sound as not-crazy as possible. Quite difficult, in fact. “Eyes closed if you have to. No hesitation.”

“Would you like me to sing a little tune and break my own fingers as well?”

His parents snickered and John raised an eyebrow at Lestrade who groaned a little and puffed his cheeks. “It’s not—seriously, believe me.”

“How about no?” John said, a bit angry, a bit doubtful, even now that they’ve come this far. “I swear, if you’ve been joking—”

“No!” Lestrade shouted, abashed. “I promise you.” He sighed, rubbing his eyes, probably wondering whatever he had to do to convince John to sprint into a wall with his eyes closed. 

Suddenly, his face lit up. “Hey!” he shouted—but not to John. 

Turning around, John saw a girl who had stopped from what seemed to be a run towards them. Greg Lestrade raised an arm to her, waving her over. “Don’t go through yet! Come here for a second, will ya?”

A timid-looking girl, around John’s age, walked closer, dragging behind her a small, kitten-covered, suitcase. “Hello,” she said apprehensively.

“You, yes, you,” Lestrade said quickly. “Help me convince John here that I’m not insane.”

Looking at a confused John and then at Lestrade, the girl nodded, before scrutinising John with a frown. She looked at John with a furrowed brow and a tilted head. “But you should… ”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m a really late-bloomer apparently,” John spat out quickly. The girl nodded again, once, before noticing John’s parents studying her and nodding again, a bit more confident this time. “Alright, then.” She offered John a small, shy smile. “I’m Molly.”

“John,” the other replied absentmindedly. “So, you’re going to nine and three-quarters, too?”

“Yes,” Molly said. “Through that wall,” she added for clarification.

“Yeah, well, run into that wall before me and if you don’t end up with a concussion I’ll gladly follow.”

Molly laughed nervously and then looked at John with some seriousness. “He’s right, you know. It’s all true.”

John smiled bitterly. “Yes, well, I’ll believe you when you go through these bricks.” 

To him, Molly would act like a confirmation.  But if Lestrade had wanted to kill him, he would’ve done so at the so-called Ministry, right? Either way, it was pretty relieving, if not selfish, knowing if this was all a scam, that this girl was going to crash into a wall before him.

With a shrug, Molly smiled again, one of those small, nervous smiles John thought were the only ones she ever did, and he watched with interest as she started backing up. John watched, conflicting feelings surrounding his mind. Was she really…?

Molly sent everyone watching a reassuring look, shut her eyes, and jogged straight towards what appeared to be a solid wall. John gasped, unable to take his eyes off what was soon going to be a disaster of an injury.

But Molly disappeared. Just… went through the wall.

_ She went through the bloody wall?! _

John’s hundredth shriek cut off mid-way as he saw Lestrade sending him a triumphant look. He slowly shut his mouth. “Yeah, obviously you were right.  _ Brilliant.” _

Lestrade grinned.

John’s parents spoke for the first time, pallor and shaken. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised?” his mom said faintly. His dad took off his glasses and contemplated crushing them.

“Nah,” Lestrade said happily. “Now, John,” he said, looking at him with some seriousness. “Your turn.”

“What, like, now?” John babbled, a bit startled (OK, scared), looking at the seemingly-very-solid wall with apprehension. True, Molly seemed to pass through without a scratch, but there was at least a small part of him that was completely against this ridiculous procedure. “Er, what if some muggle sees?” he suggested.

“There is a small charm here, and even if they see, no one really pays attention to what they think is impossible. Either way, it would be put off as a trick of the eye,” Lestrade said with a shrug. John frowned and felt strangely disappointed he hadn’t noticed any wizarding quirks before this. 

He glanced at the wall again, and his gut quivered with anticipation. Was he really doing this? His logic screamed not to.

_ Screw common sense. _

“...Right,” John muttered, taking a deep breath. “Well, here goes nothing!”

“Woah, hold your horses,” his mom said suddenly, cutting off John mid-preparation. She turned to him and held out her arms. “Goodbye hug?” she said quietly, with a smile. John grinned back and hugged her tightly. “Love ya, mum,” he said into her ear. “I’ll call you, or email, or write, or whatever the hell wizards use to communicate.”

His dad awkwardly tried to join in, engulfing the two of them in his arms. “Atta boy. Avenge us, John!” he added, and John laughed, remembering the inside joke.

They broke off, and John smiled to Lestrade, who had watched with a peaceful nostalgia. He extended a hand, remembering Greg Lestrade doing just that a mere couple hours ago, when he was just the stranger in his house. 

And now he had known so much more, and he suddenly felt overwhelmed.

“See you on the other side,” John said darkly, jokingly.

“See ya soon,” Lestrade replied with a smile.

John backed up, trying to copy Molly. He took a very deep breath, let it out slowly with a quiet hiss, and cast a final look at the trio. He tried to smile, concealing his utter terror and excitement, and shut his eyes.

His legs moved almost automatically, and John ran through the wall and into Platform 9 ¾.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why isn't there Sherlock yet, you say? They'll be meeting each other next chapter, so don't worry!


	4. I Like Trains

John opened his eyes, and gasped. His mind short-circuited. His mouth stayed open as he raised his head, turning around and around, trying to drink in as much as the scene as possible. 

A beautiful, long train seemed to glitter as it stood on its tracks. Everything seemed… brighter, in a way. A cat pawed at his leg, and John shook it off in a daze. An owl swooped overhead, and John shook his head, again. 

“It worked.” John couldn’t help but grin foolishly. “It worked!”

Children of all ages swarmed around him, carrying trunks, but also cages and wands—John looked at his suitcase, suddenly feeling very embarrassed and unprepared. 

He shouldn’t be, he reminded himself— _ I’ll get my supplies soon, after the Sorting. _

_ The Sorting? _

John irritably chased the question away from his mind. No time to think about that. “Go with the flow,” he mumbled to himself, and started towards the train. He noticed a clock; 10:38. John nodded to himself happily.

He stumbled around, gaping at everything, for a while, before eventually resigning to dangerously sitting on the edge of the train platform. John pursed his lips, swinging his legs absentmindedly, lightly kicking the side of the train. 

_ “But mom, I’m old enough!”  _ a querulous voice rung out. He watched from the corner of his eye amusedly as a toddler whined, glaring at what was probably his brother, who stuck his tongue out at the other. 

John smiled as the mother basically dragged the child away as he attempted to climb the train walls. He then leaned back on his arms, gazing at his feet, feeling wholly remarkable. An entire new world was living here— _ and now I’m part of it.  _

The train rang twice, loudly, jolting John from his slight daydream. He blinked, stumbled, mumbled an apology before realising nobody was there. John blushed and, standing up, walked away as quick as he could, feeling quite embarrassed all of a sudden. 

He attempted maneuvering through the crowd for a moment before giving up and simply walking in the direction everyone else was walking.

John was then faced with another, much more difficult problem—where to sit.

He felt dread happily settle in his stomach, content to stay for as long as needed. John scowled and began looking for an empty compartment.

Harder said than done.

Most of them were all taken, either full or not welcoming in the slightest. John felt like an ant as he peered into crowded compartments, feeling quite panicky.

He ended up stubbornly walking in one direction only, following a winding hallway. He noticed the passengers started to dwindle here, but, perhaps out of curiosity, forged on. 

Once, John peered into an utterly crammed compartment and saw a kid shake his head. John pointed to the direction he was walking, and the other shook his head again, before stopping, and then giving him a shrug and a thumbs-up. John shrugged back, gave a thumbs-up, and continued.

The train began moving with a jolt, and John stumbled and almost fell, before he straightened up and, finally, reached a compartment door. This seemed to be the end of the hallway. The curtains were drawn, but John, upon hearing the clinking of glass and other quiet noises, slowly approached.

He fidgeted on his feet, opening his mouth, then closing it again.

“Come in,” an annoyed voice sounded from inside. “You forgot to drop off your luggage, by the way.”

John started, then scowled, not knowing whether to direct it at the door or his suitcase. 

“You know, this mind-reading thing is really getting pretty dull,” he called out, and entered the compartment. 

He drew in a surprised breath. John had a nagging feeling he was late; there was no way anyone, even a wizard, could make such a mess in so little time.

“Should I consider this as normal?” he joked, quietly.

Cluttered everywhere, was junk. Conspiracy boards were plastered on the wall. There were pictures of people banging on their glass frames and begging for mercy (John drew back, horrified, but drew his eyes away with determination). There was a rack of various liquids, powders, and different… animal parts? John vaguely wondered with a shudder. They seemed to be moving on their own. The only person inside the compartment was studying the movements and was writing on a sheet of parchment.

“Lestrade or Anthea?” The stranger spoke, without taking his eyes off the potions.

John looked at the other confusedly. “Excuse me?”

The wizard sighed, and repeated his question, with a bit more force this time. “I said, Lestrade or Anthea?”

“I…” John’s mind was in a whirl. “Lestrade. How did you—”

“Don’t see the family resemblance?”

The wizard stood up and looked back and John, who couldn’t help but feel a jolt as he made eye contact. His eyes were quite strange; a little longer than normal, a bit… slanted, and he couldn’t place a finger on the exact colour.

They were absolutely piercing. John forced himself to stand his ground, looking back with steely eyes of his own. “Holmes,” he said. Not a question.

Holmes nodded. “Have a seat,” he said brightly, himself taking the seat previously sat on, continuing to write.

John paused. “You’re letting me in?” he said, a bit jokingly. “Right now? We don’t know a thing about each other.”

“I know you’re new to magic and that Lestrade’s taken you to my brother Mycroft. I know you’ve just been told you’re a wizard yesterday night and you’re going to buy everything you need after the Sorting. I know you’ve been kicking at the train twenty minutes ago, and that you had trouble finding a compartment.”

He stopped, took a breath, and looked at John with a false smile. He gestured to the compartment seat. “John Watson, why don’t you sit down?”

John sat down.

-+-+-+-

It only later occurred to him he hadn’t told Sherlock his name.

Upon questioning, Sherlock simply glanced at his coat-sleeve, and John tugged at it and found an embroidered “John Watson” on it; courtesy of his mother.

“As for the others,” said Sherlock, sitting down beside John, who took his suitcase and awkwardly shoved it underneath, “I don’t recognise you, you forgot to drop off your luggage out of excitement, and from what you said and by the fact that you’re  _ here, _ I can deduce that you’re new to the wizarding world. If you’re this much of a late-bloomer, you’d obviously go see Mycroft. He’s too lazy to fetch you himself, so it would be either Lestrade or Anthea. You have some dark circles under your eyes and you don’t have a wand with you (a new wizard would be too excited to store it in your trunk) so you didn’t have enough time to go buy anything until after the Sorting, because you’ve just been told yesterday night. It’s been awhile since the bell rung; you’ve been searching for some time now. And as for the kicking, the noise it made—disrupting my potion experiment, I might add; I put in the beeswing at the wrong time—the noise matches with the shoes you’re wearing. I figured another half-dozen things about you but I think this ought to do the trick.”

John Watson looked at Sherlock with awe. “Woah. Now, _ that _ was cool.”

Sherlock looked back at John, with curiosity. “You really think so?” he murmured, previous harsh tone completely gone.

“It  _ was, _ it was quite amazing.”

“Not what people usually say,” Sherlock admitted, little colour seeping into his pale cheeks.

“What do they usually say?” John said with a smile.

Sherlock looked back at John, returning the smile this time. “I would tell you, but then I’d kill you.”

John paused, blinked, before he laughed delightfully. Sherlock offered a happy smile and John couldn’t help but smile crookedly back. 

“So,” John says with a cough. “All the other compartments are full.”

“I know.”

“Yeah, obviously,” said John, rolling his eyes. He rested his head on a hand, elbows on the paper-covered desk. There was a cage on one side of the compartment seats—an owl. It noticed John looking and hooted loudly, flapping its wings and sending a pile of owl food flying at him. John blocked his face with his hands and glared. The owl stuck her tongue out.

John decided not to question anything anymore.

“It only does that to the people she likes,” noted Sherlock with a smile. 

“What, make her food attack me and then stick out her tongue? Wonder what it does to the ones she doesn’t,” John mutters, shaking some pellets from his hair.

“Mostly attempt to peck their eyes out,” Sherlock responded, absentmindedly. He drew out a wand (it was incredibly fancy—long, swishy and elegant. John felt jealous and made a note to get a wand like Sherlock’s) and waved it in a fancy swishy-flick, muttering something John couldn’t hear. The papers on the desk floated up and stacked itself into a pile, on the floor. 

“Here’s the food cart,” Sherlock said, abruptly. “I’ll get something for us; you haven’t eaten since yesterday.”

There was a quiet knock at the door. “Come in, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock called out, and the door opened, ushering in a cart full of food. John pretended he wasn’t looking at all of them as desperately as he wanted to.

“Afternoon, Sherlock,” said Mrs. Hudson breezily. She then saw John, and did a double take. “And who’s _ this  _ lovely gentleman?”

“John Watson,” said both Sherlock and John, simultaneously. Sherlock gave John an amused look and John lightly elbowed him. 

Mrs. Hudson looked at the two of them, like “ah-ha!”. She sighed, placed a hand over her heart, and gave John a smile. 

“I see,” she said happily. “You seem like just the type,” she says softly, giving Sherlock a motherly pat on the shoulder. “Sherlock, I’m so glad to see you’re finally moving on from all that Adler business.”

Sherlock stiffened. “We were never dating, Mrs. Hudson.”

Mrs. Hudson frowned, and then turned back to John with a wink. “Well, like I said, it’s great to see him moving on.”

_ “Oh,”  _ said John. “I’m not—”

“The usual, Sherlock?”

“A bit of everything,” replied Sherlock, handing over some gold (real gold?) coins.

“Have a nice day, boys!” Mrs. Hudson said cheerfully, on her way out the door, cart rattling.

As the cart left, John took a breath, wondering if the world was just going to smother him with questions and not give him any answers, ever. 

“Adler?” he asked carefully. 

“Tried to… bribe,” Sherlock emphasised, “me, into getting her parents out from a…” he stopped again, “a hitch.” A faint smile. “I might have given her some wrong information.”

John opened his mouth, but lowered his head and exhaled instead. “I see.”

He paused, pursed his lips, before speaking again. “Got a date?” he asked tentatively, choosing his words carefully.

Sherlock shook his head. “Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side, but to answer your question, I’m not partial to any gender.”

“Oh,” said John. “Hmm. So am I.” He coughed awkwardly. “Not the chemical defect and losing part, I mean, I meant—”

Sherlock nodded again, curtly, and John dwindled off. Trying to dissolve the sudden tension, he looked at the pile of sweets on the compartment table, picking one up. “Every-Flavour-Beans?”

“Literally,” said Sherlock. “Oh, no, not that one,” he added as John opened the box and picked out a beige-ish one at random—“Centipede.”

“Really?” said John, wide-eyed, and when Sherlock nodded he grinned and popped it into his mouth. 

He instantly regretted it, choking and spitting it into a nearby wad of paper; Sherlock made a noise of distress but it soon dissolved into giggles as John attempted to brush his tongue—John soon joined in.

It continued for a while, Sherlock somehow correctly identifying (“it’s the hue, it’s obvious”) all the beans and John daringly eating some few before regretting it again—Sherlock found this incredibly amusing.

Finishing the box, John began making his way through the treacle tarts. He looked at Sherlock, who was looking back at John, and awkwardly held one out. Sherlock shook his head, and John nodded with a shrug before he continued eating, constantly looking over the strange treats with suspicion, and then at Sherlock, wondering, by the intensity of his gaze, if he had poisoned it—from what he knew about him so far it was quite likely.

Just as he tore open a chocolate frog, Sherlock suddenly grabbed at John’s arm, tightly. He looked at John with an indicator for silence clear in his eyes. John looked back, wide-eyed and confused, as Sherlock grabbed his wand and started making his way towards the door.

Sherlock had the same walk as John’s father—scarily quiet.

Yanking open the door so hard John swore he heard a crack, Sherlock uttered an angry cry as a pitter of footsteps slowly echoed away. “Come on, John!” he urged, and dashed out the door. John didn’t know what to do but confusedly follow—it seemed as if it was the only thing he’d been doing today.

They ran through the hallway, Sherlock muttering a string of curses, occasionally screeching to a halt and turning around, turning a corner, backing up, and John just trying to keep up with the wizard’s erratic directions.

Sherlock and John turned a corner, and Sherlock put on a final burst of speed. He ran straight into a train compartment, and slammed open the door, breathing heavily.

Three twelve-year-olds looked up at the two of them with absolute terror.

“Oh,” said Sherlock unhelpfully.

John looked at Sherlock. “Not what you were looking for?” he suggested. His tone was clipped, but he was trying to keep the smile out from it.

Sherlock scanned the girls, then shook his head with a wry smile. “Whoops.”

“A-are you prefects?” one of the girls managed to whisper out.

Sherlock looked at the girl and gave her what was probably his attempt at a reassuring smile—it made things worse. “Uh huh,” he chirped. John pinched the bridge of his nose and added another word to his list-of-impossibly-confusing-words.

Sherlock squinted at the kids. “The girl to your left stole your cat—she’s hiding it in the bathroom. She’s jealous; she wanted one instead of a toad.”

“Mandy!” the girl who lost her cat screeched.

_ “Sherlock,”  _ John said wearily, as accusing screams echoed throughout the chamber.

Sherlock gave John a small, genuine smile, and then, trying to save the scene, turned to both John and the three little girls.

“Welcome to Hogwarts.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couldn't think of any cool deductions—sorry!  
> P.S. the chapter title is an asdfmovie reference to the confused.


	5. For I'm A Thinking Cap!

“Four houses: Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, Gryffindor, and Slytherin. You’re a Gryffindor; you’ll get what the others mean soon enough.”

John nodded slowly, not bothering to ask how the other knew what house he was in. “And you?”

“Ravenclaw. So is my entire family. Almost Slytherin, though,” said Sherlock with a nonchalant shrug. “Then again, so was my brother.”

John looked at Sherlock with a frown. “You and your brother—do you really not…?” He paused for a moment, trying to remember, but Sherlock answered easily before.

“No Legilimency,” he said, with a sort of prideful look.

“But how,” John protested loudly.

Sherlock sighed, impatient and condescending—like Mycroft, John noted—but much stronger. “It is an art. Magic will not solve everything; some of the most brilliant wizards out there don’t have an ounce of logic in their petty minds. Knowledge, observation, and deduction—all you really need.”

“I’ve told you my methods. Try. Go on and apply them.”

John looked over, before looking away again, biting his lip. “Uh, what, on you?”

“Yes.”

“What, like, now?”

 _“Yes,”_ Sherlock repeated with a wry, sideways smile.

“Um…” John took a deep breath, looking Sherlock head to toe, hoping (uselessly) that he wouldn’t embarrass himself.

Sherlock Holmes was dressed in a simple attire; nothing too fancy, but absolutely nothing dirty or wrinkled at all. He had dark hair that sprang up in soft curls. His posture seemed relaxed enough, with a bit of a lean towards John, eyes, those strange opal eyes, scanning, studying him meticulously (probably better than John was).

John frantically skimmed his eyes over the other. “Uh… your parents are tidy?”

Sherlock’s eyes flickered, before steadying on John again. “What makes you think that?”

John swallowed, and gestured to the absolute wreck of a room. “You’re definitely not very organised, but your attire is very clean?” He frowned. “Actually, I dunno. No idea. It was just a guess.”

A single nod. “I’d say my parents are rather… neurotic,” Sherlock murmured.

A hesitant smile. “Yay, me,” said John awkwardly. He leaned back on the seat and looked out the window, the flashes and blurs of the train posts.

“You’ll have a couple of hours,” noted Sherlock, after a moment. “Our current speed is at eighty-five kilometres an hour.”

John frowned. “How’d you know that?”

“The posts are fifty metres apart.”

“That… doesn’t answer my question,” John said under his breath, annoyed, and then, louder: “A couple hours to do what?”

“You haven’t gotten any sleep last night, and unless you’re like me, which I am rather confident you’re not, you’ll be needing some rest.”

Sherlock glanced at John as he yawned instinctively and rubbed his eyes.

He took out his wand, again, swirling it in the air, and a violin floated over to the other side, hovering next to the owl cage.

With a murmur under his breath, the bow moved against the violin, and soft music drifted out. John watched, entranced, by both the magic and the music.

He didn’t recognise the song. Not a surprise—he wasn’t exactly an avid music listener. But even John could tell it was beautiful. Heart-wrenchingly, painstakingly beautiful.

John leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes.

Sherlock continued to charm his violin into plucking out the mournful notes as John slowly drifted off to sleep, the music echoing in his ears.

-+-+-+-

“Watson, John!”

John’s face was on fire as he shuffled over to the front _. This sucks._

Whispers immediately spread through the crowds. You could practically see the spread of news. John cringed—it was bad enough with the first years already, awkwardly tripping over their feet and practically falling off his boat—things were just going from bad to worse.

John gazed, once again, at the floating candles, trying to spot one of them dripping wax. He looked up at the incredibly tall ceiling and spotted the Big Dipper.

John then scanned the crowds. Four tables were lined in front of him—Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff and Slytherin. Another table was on the side, with a line of adults; professors, John guessed.

He caught sight of a translucent man, hovering, covered in blood. He tried not to let the fear show on his face.

He had assumed the ghosts were just an early Halloween charm, but it slowly seemed not the case. Peeves the Poltergeist had gone out of his way to make him miserable— “Icky firsties! But, ah!” he cooed with a sinister grin, “what… is… this?”

He had then gone ahead and dropped spiders all over the entire line of students, taking care to sprinkle extra on John.

John hoped he had shaken them all out by now.

Trying not to grimace (and failing), John plopped down to the chair, with a heavy sigh. He caught Sherlock’s eye, sitting alone in the Ravenclaw table, who gave him a small smile and a nod. Sherlock had looked over all the first-years’ walks over to the hat, and had then glanced over to one of the four tables—so far, he had only gotten one wrong, in which he had looked so angry John had laughed out loud.

Sherlock looked at John, and nodded over to the Gryffindor table. Smiling back, John put on the hat.

 _“Gryffindor!”_ blared into his ears, and John smiled, once again weakly, to some quiet, hesitant cheers from the Gryffindor table, and headed off.

He had lingered by an empty seat beside a group of older Gryffindors, but ended up sitting by the ghost at the end of their table, alone, and struck up a conversation with him, all the while trying not to stare at the jagged line that was his neck, hanging on a thread.

Nearly-Headless Nick was actually pretty fun to talk to—it was nice to have someone who was, literally, timeless. He didn’t prod, didn’t question, John’s identity, which was what most people tried to do.

“Be careful of Peeves,” he said.

“Gotcha,” John muttered with a wry grin. He then proceeded to watch the other Sortings, taking care to note Sherlock’s guess before.

After “Zibany, Sophia,” was called, the students settled into their seats, and there was a shuffling near the professors’ table, before a tall man stood up.

Anderson, he was called. The Headmaster. “He used to be in the Ministry of Magic,” whispered Nick to John. “He got kicked out; been bitter ever since.”

The speech had gone on, about Quidditch and House Cups and Forbidden Forests and whatnot. John was so confused and frustrated he barely listened after half.

And then there was the school song, when all John had done was look around panickedly, mouthing the words and hoping no one noticed.

“And now you may tuck in,” Anderson declared, and John sighed, thinking that was probably the most understood line he had heard in the entire speech.

-+-+-+-

“Well, at least it wasn’t difficult,” John joked, picking at some mashed potatoes. (Sherlock had snuck over to the Gryffindor table. Everyone noticed, but Sherlock had explained that he wasn’t trying to make himself go unnoticed, and that he obviously could if he wanted to, but that there was no point of that because no one would try to stop him anyways. And no one did.)

“Oh, it certainly was for me,” Sherlock said dryly. “Sodding hat. It knew I would be in Ravenclaw from the start but purposely slowed it out to make me look bad.”

John shot Sherlock an amused look. “Wonder why.”

Sherlock grinned wickedly. “Not my fault it’s been stored in a dusty cupboard and no one’s cleaned it in years.”

John’s known Sherlock for less than a day, but he already knew that obviously it would be Sherlock who would insult a Sorting Hat.

“It’s got quite a dirty mouth,” Sherlock remarked cheerfully. John laughed, before a frown appeared on his lips, and he turned, fully, to face Sherlock.

“You mean it speaks?”

“Yes, obviously it would speak,” Sherlock said, and then looked John back with searching eyes. “But why wouldn’t it speak for you?”

John blinked, surprised (although he shouldn’t be) that Sherlock’s spoken his question before he could speak it, but then shook his head, perplexed. “I’ve no idea. Maybe I’m too old,” he joked weakly.

Sherlock hummed with thought, but didn’t make any other remark.

-+-+-+-

A prefect had suggested to take John over to the first years’ dorm. He had said this with a loud chortle, which dwindled down into a skeptical gaze when John had tried to laugh along. He had managed to get through the Fat Lady portrait without screaming (an impressive task) and couldn’t find any empty chairs in the common room. He had then awkwardly waved, and then, being rained upon with dozens of questions, darted out back into the halls.

So John wandered through the hallways, utterly lost, completely terrified. The silence was unnerving, to the point when John couldn’t help but look over his shoulder once in a while.

He turned a corner and came face-to-face with another wizard, older than him.

“Hey!” the boy yelled, advancing towards John. John attempted a friendly smile—a very small one.

“I’ve seen you getting Sorted. What’s going on?” he questioned, prodding him on the chest, hard. John winced, and coughed before he spoke.

“Just a late-bloomer,” he muttered, noticing a small tear in his runners.

“Late-bloomer, huh?”

John nodded. He recognised the man as a Gryffindor; John had seen him at the table. But that didn’t stop John from fiddling his fingers, trying not to bite his nails.

“You’re friends with that… Sherlock, right?” And, when John paused, and then nodded: “Him and Irene, they’ve dated, right? Care asking him what she likes?”

John stared. He pressed his lips together, and gave the Gryffindor a look that his mother would be proud of. “You’re kidding me. You’re trying to use me. _And_ Sherlock.” He shook his head. “If Irene likes you, you don’t need someone to give you tips. You would bond naturally.”

“But,” John added, “here’s some free info. I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t like cowards.”

The other sputtered and turned red. John’s eyes flickered, before steadying again, staring at the Gryffindor’s left eye, which seemed unfocused.

The Gryffindor tightened his lips, forcing them into a smile. “Here’s some advice for you, too. Stay away from Sherlock Holmes. He’s nothin’ but trouble. His parents are crazy; pureblood biased. Tries to make him look good. You know why the freak’s so observant? ‘Cause he needed to be.”

A chill ran down John’s back.

“Well,” he snapped back shakily, “your parents clearly didn’t raise you right; why would anyone be so… so horrible?” He cringed at that, and the Gryffindor smiled.

“I bet Holmes never told you why they split.”

“Well, then, you better pay up.”

“Sherlock’s bisexual.”

John watches with a slightly open mouth as the Gryffindor looks back at him expectantly, malice and triumph clear in his eyes. John licks his trembling lips, which had gone dry, before speaking.

A thousand curses, a million insults, cram themselves into each other, but what only came out was:

“Ah, good, well, so am I.”

The (stupid, mindless, bumbling _idiot)_ blinked and started. “I see.” He sneered. “Explains why it’s been less than a day and you’ve already gone barging into compartments with him. May we be expecting a happy announcement by the end of the week?”

John’s face heats up. “First off, just because two people like the others’ gender does not mean they’re going to immediately fall in love and kiss. And, second, I don’t give a _damn_ about Sherlock’s sexuality.”

“I can’t believe it,” the other said gleefully. “No wonder Irene broke up with him.”

John drew in a breath, forced his fists to unclench, and gave the other a mockingly large smile. “I’d better be off,” he said. “Have fun being a manipulative homosexist freak. And you thought you had a chance with _Irene Adler.”_ John pursed his lips and shook his head.

He caught the look on the boy’s face. “Oop, sore spot there, eh?”

The Gryffindor raised his fists. “Come on, Watson. Come on. You scared?”

“Well, I’m a Gryffindor, all right,” says John with a nasty grin. “First day, first fight. My parents are gonna kill me.”

The wizard advanced on him with a scornful laugh. “No Prince Charming for you.”

John closed his eyes, taking in a breath. For a moment, nothing happened.

Then, nothing continued to happen.

John opened his eyes to find the other rapidly pittering away, with something akin to fear. Confused, he looked around, and found him leaning against the wall, lazy smirk on his face.

“You called?” said Sherlock Holmes.

-+-+-+-

"Don't pick a fight with Thorne," Sherlock said. "He's rather good."

John had to jog a bit to catch up with Sherlock’s rapid footsteps. “How’d you do that?” he asked anxiously.

The other slowed and rolled his eyes. “I have more freedom than other students, but I’ve been banned from… various spells that were, ah, a tad scarring. Although I’m surprised he even had the brains to remember that.” Sherlock waved a hand dismissively, and John couldn’t help but think how fortunate he was to have Sherlock as a friend, because if it was him who cornered John today… well, God help him.

John flashed back to what the Gryffindor had said. Feeling a pang in his chest, he looked over, but saw the clear, almost desperate plea on Sherlock’s face, blank but somehow telling everything at the same time.

“Sherlock?” John mumbled, after a pause.

Sherlock looked over, a fleeting flash of panic on his face immediately disappearing into a neutral mask. “Mm-hmm?”

John gave Sherlock a reassuring smile. “Thank you.”

Sherlock relaxed and returned it.

They had reached their destination, wherever it was supposed to be, by now, for Sherlock stopped in front of a portrait. He told it something discreetly, and it swung open, revealing a small, dark hallway.

“Where are we going?”

Sherlock didn’t say anything as he looked both sides and quickly went  in.

After coming to the conclusion that Sherlock avoided answers more than Lestrade, or even Mycroft, an annoyed and mystified John followed Sherlock inside.

The passage was quite narrow, in fact, John had to stumble behind an (annoyingly graceful) Sherlock. A couple of times he would accidentally bump into the other, who would wordlessly continue walking, a bit faster.

“Right, you’ve still got questions,” Sherlock said, after a while of silent speedwalking.

“Yes,” John said forcefully. “Where are we going?”

“Hogwarts entrance. Next?’

“Why?”

“Lestrade’s taking you to Knockturn Alley. He doesn’t want to put it off until tomorrow, so he’s picking you up tonight. Figured we’d surprise him at the Hogwarts Entrance, where he should be arriving… just about now.”

And as he spoke, they rounded a corner and exited in front of the entrance, two tall, towering doors. Sherlock stepped out of another portrait (which swung closed immediately after) and leaned against it. John blew out a frustrated breath because Sherlock pretty much just injected John with even more questions than he had earlier, and crossed his arms.

The door opened, and Lestrade swiftly walked in.

He glanced at John with surprise, then at Sherlock with annoyance, not so surprised anymore.

“Hey, I saved him from getting beat up,” Sherlock snapped. “I deserve to go with him.”

John frowned, but didn’t object. As far as he knew, Sherlock was pretty nice to have around.

“You know each other?” he inquired.

“Yes,” said Lestrade. _Unfortunately,_ he seemed to silently radiate. “Sherlock here has, er, assisted in few of the Ministry’s cases.”

Sherlock Holmes smirked. “You mean _solved,_ and practically all of them.”

John Watson looked at him. “Really?” he said, rolling his eyes but finding himself unable to do it genuinely.

“Modesty is just as much as a lie as a brag. I’m simply being truthful when I’m saying, the Ministry comes to me when they’re out of their depth—which, quite helpfully, is always.”

John searches for a response to this, but Lestrade cuts in. “C’mon. I’ve told your headmaster already,” he mutters, tilting his head towards the entrance, gesturing John out the door. Sherlock followed, of which Lestrade seemed to despair in but not make any move to protest.

They walked slowly, reaching the Hogwarts gates.

“I don’t normally allow this,” said Lestrade with a wink, “but, seeing as we’re cut on time, my…” he cut off abruptly—“...croft, has allowed me to Apparate.”

“Oh, please,” snorted Sherlock. “You’re rubbish at Apparition; you gave John a headache.”

“Most people throw up,” Lestrade snapped back defensively.

“ _Most people_ just suck at Apparating—I’m not most people.”

Lestrade opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He shut it with a look of contempt, and crossed his arms. Sherlock smiled, smug, as the older wizard reluctantly grabbed onto his arm. John frowned, but held on as well.

Sherlock closed his eyes, John gripped his arm tighter, and, for the third time that day, they flickered away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The pacing will even out eventually... promise!


	6. Diagonally

They glittered into view, and a child did a double-take. She blinked, looked at her juice-box, shook his head faintly, and was dragged away by her mother’s hand. 

John followed the other two’s eyes and saw a small, creaky-looking pub flicker into view. Rubbing his eyes, he walked towards it.

“The Leaky Cauldron,” said Lestrade cheerfully. “Oldest pub in London.”

“I thought it was the White Hart,” argued John, meekly.

“Ah, muggles.” Lestrade patted John on the shoulder, who brushed it off, rolling his eyes, as they entered the shabby pub.

Some people nodded at Lestrade as they passed, a shady-looking guy shot Sherlock with a finger gun, and all of them eyed John with suspicion. Feeling strangely defiant, John held his head high and stared them all in the eye. 

“Fancy a drink, mate?” called out the bartender.

“Not this time,” replied Lestrade with a hint of pride. “Ministry business.”

“Hardly,” scoffed Sherlock quietly, and John followed him over to the far wall. 

John had barely glanced at the bricks before he began backing up, taking a preparing breath. 

Sherlock shot him a curious look, before giving him the smallest of head shakes, paired with a suppressed giggle. 

John blinked, blushed furiously, and walked back. 

Lestrade eventually joined them, and when he began counting bricks, John didn’t try to second-guess him, and simply watched — as Sherlock reached over and pushed one back immediately. Lestrade huffed begrudgingly and crossed his arms, leaning back, tapping his feet.

_ “Oh my God,”  _ John muttered, shaking his head but grinning with delight, as the wall slowly slid aside.

“Diagon Alley.”

John repeated this with skepticism, and looked at the long alley, which, frankly, was not very diagonal. 

But, no matter, they entered, and John had to agree that soon, he forgot all about the name.

Their first stop was Ollivanders —“Gotta get ya a wand!” chirped Lestrade as they entered the shop. “The Ministry has a small loan, of sorts, for muggleborns. You’re meant to pay back sooner or later.”

“Great,” said John. “I’ll make a business selling magical lemonade.”

A small chime sounded, and a short man scuttled over. 

“Good… night, Lestrade,” he said, with a faint smile. “And to you, Sherlock Holmes,” he murmured, nodding at Sherlock. “Eleven inches, dragon heartstring, very unyielding, and, yes, I remember, now—” his voice dropped to a hush— _ “Elder wood.” _

John heard Lestrade draw in a sharp breath and saw him looking over to Sherlock, who gazed back impassionately (although John swore there was smugness in his eyes somewhere.) John looked on to who he assumed was Ollivander, for more information, but that would have to wait, for Ollivander immediately hustled over to John, turning his silvery eyes on him. 

He frowned. “I haven’t sold you a wand before—don’t say you’ve been to Reyna’s, that woman can’t craft between a pine and a fir—”

“Er, no, sir,” Lestrade interrupted, “He’s… a new wizard.”

Ollivander stopped abruptly. “Oh? Well, I’m glad you’ve come to me, after all—come on, now!” He turned and walked over, deeper into the store. John followed, relieved to find the old wizard one that did not prod for information.

Turning a corner in the store, John lifted his eyes and gasped. (His throat seemed to have taken to those now, after so many screams.) 

He couldn’t describe it if he had to. There were wands everywhere, all types, all colours. Crafting stations were placed throughout the area, and the store seemed to go even deeper, on and on… John tripped over a stool, and winced as Sherlock helped him up. 

All of a sudden, something popped into his mind. 

“I guess you could call this… Olli-wand-er?” 

John dashed Sherlock a mischievous grin, shooting at him two finger-guns in an "ayyyy" gesture. Sherlock was taken aback for a second, and then he snickered, doing an eye-roll that put all of John’s to shame.

A tape measure swooped in out of nowhere, and began measuring his nose length all by itself. John didn’t even blink at that anymore. 

“Elder wood?” he asked Sherlock, remembering, and Sherlock nodded.

“Rare, deeply unlucky, destined for greatness—” he shot John a grin—“all that cliche.”

“Obviously you would have it,” said John, swatting away the measure, which had gotten uncomfortably close to his eyes. Sherlock smiled.

“Right, now,” said Ollivander, appearing suddenly. “Try this—Rowan, unicorn hair core, 10 inches, nice and whippy.”

John took it, blinked, and swatted it like a fly-swatter. Ollivander suppressed a smile as he shook his head and snatched it away, and John sheepishly twiddled his fingers until the wandmaker hustled back with another.

“Spruce, dragon heartstring, eleven inches, quite sturdy.”

John waved it like a windshield wiper.

“Hazel, twelve inches, bit bendy.”

John used it as a whip.

“We’re getting closer. Swishy English oak, eleven-and-a-half, phoenix tail hair.”

John wrote his name in cursive in the air.

Ollivander rubbed his chin and tapped his feet. “Now, I think I quite have it,” he muttered to himself, and shuffled around for a moment, before, with an exclamation of “there!”, he handed John yet another wand.

“Cedar wood, unicorn tail hair, 10-and-a-half inches, slightly yielding.”

John took it, and immediately felt a rush of exhilaration. His hand gripped the wand, feeling as natural as it were holding a pencil.

Raising it up, John grinned, gave it a showy flourish, and swooped it in a big twirl.

A noise resembling fireworks swished around the four, a burst of bronzed glitter, sprinkling from the wand tip, speckled with incandescent blue ribbons. It ended with a slight shimmer of opalescent light, and John looked at the three, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

Ollivander smiled proudly and spread his hands. “There you go, my boy—as I say, the wand has chosen the master.”

Next stop: Flourish and Blotts.

Sherlock, John found, had a strange passion for the spell books, and John watched raptly as he skimmed through countless different books, muttering mistakes and counter-curses, insults at the authors. 

As he glanced over, Sherlock caught John watching with a skeptical smile, and smirked. “I’m dead serious, they’re rubbish. See, here,” he said, showing John an article on a magazine in the corner. “Magi-me-more? Do you even _ know _ what they put in those? I could easily brew up a potion that would get those thrown into the harbor.”

John rolled his eyes, but couldn’t help but smile. “Of course,” he said, and before Sherlock could respond, he darted away.

After burying himself in dozens of quite compelling spellbooks, John begun to wander around, trying to avoid awkward conversation with the bookstore owner. 

He glanced out the window, only to find it completely dark (well, duh). John thought it was strange that all the stores were open at this ungodly hour, and, upon questioning this to Lestrade (who had  _ finally  _ begun to answer questions for once), he had responded with: “You have no idea how many witches and wizards forget to buy a specific spell-book, or left their toad in a cauldron-store.”

“Like him,” Lestrade added. John looked to where Lestrade had nodded at, and saw a wizard, about the same age as him. The wizard noticed them, gave them a nod back, and cupped his hands to his mouth.

“Do you know where the standard spellbook is?” he said, shouting but trying to be quiet at the same time.

“Er, here,” John said, holding up one he had just been reading.

“Not that one,” the boy replied with an eye roll. “The fifth-year.”

“I — oh,” John mumbled. “Shoot.”

“Hey, no worries, mate,” the other said back with a short laugh. He cocked his head and studied John curiously.

“Hey, I’ve never seen you before. I’m Michael, Mike, Mikey, etc. Call me whichever.”

“Jonathan, John, Johnny, but just John, please,” John said, smiling.

“Right then, John,” Mike said back. “Oh, hold on… here’s it,” he muttered, grabbing a thick textbook from a corner. “Gotcha.”

As Mike walked to the cashier, John busied himself in watching Lestrade, who had pulled out a very crumpled sheet of paper from a pocket, and was reading through it while walking along a bookshelf, running his fingers along the spines. “Got it, got it, got that one, too,” he was mumbling under his breath.

Walking towards the door, Mike stretched and yawned. “Oh, man, I gotta go back to sleep,” he said. “See ya at Hogwarts.”

John waved, and smiled at the departing figure of Mike. He had made a friend.

After all the books were bought, John carried the growing pile of supplies into yet another store. 

And another, and another… he soon lost track. 

_ “So _ much better than normal back-to-school shopping,” he joked, as he tried on a wizard hat. “Well, I wouldn’t know,” he added, as the hat fell way over his eyes.

B roomsticks and cauldrons, wands and books—and, of course, a cat. A smooth, rippling blue-black feline, with soft speckles of white. “Andromeda,” John had immediately declared. It happily walked alongside the three as they re-entered Hogwarts.

“And there ya go,” Lestrade chirped brightly, as they walked back through the gates. 

“Well, I suppose I’ll just be off again,” he said, tipping his hat. 

“See ya,” said John, raising a hand.

“I hope not — you really shouldn’t be seeing me as much as Sherlock does,” Lestrade said with a wink, and before John could answer, he was gone.

John shrugged, and then looked at Sherlock with a small smile. “Let’s go get some sleep.”

And so, both desperately needing a good night’s sleep (but only one of them admitting it), John and Sherlock walked together all the way back into Hogwarts.

Upon entering the castle, they parted ways, Sherlock heading west and John to the Fat Lady portrait. 

Of which he then stopped to an abrupt halt. 

John gritted his teeth and swore under his breath, because even if she was going to be awakened, it wouldn’t do much, as John had absolutely no idea whatsoever of the password. 

After a couple tentative, quiet “hello?”s, John was even more abashed to find the Gryffindor common room completely silent, with only the quiet snores of sleeping students. 

John kicked at his suitcase gently, and then noticed something on it: a sophisticated, navy-blue wool jacket. 

“You’re kidding me,” John muttered, threading a hand through his hair. Not thinking, he turned and immediately sprinted over to the Ravenclaw tower. He darted up the staircase as fast as he could, two stairs at a time, luggage bouncing, and screeched to a halt at the top.

He eyed the strange knocker with suspicion. The eagle head seemed to stare right at John, causing him to reconsider his choices. John hesitated, looking at the wool jacket on the suitcase, almost turning back around.

But then John imagined him faced with the empty halls, with only his shadow as a partner. He steeled his will, and took a step closer. 

“Er…” John coughed, a little too late realising this was going to be just as bad as the Gryffindor portrait. 

A sudden voice jolted John from his dread. “ You have two ropes. Each rope takes one hour to burn. These ropes are not identical, nor are they uniform. It does not necessarily take half an hour for half the rope to burn. With only these two ropes and a way to light them, how do you measure out 45 minutes?”

“What the hell?” John blurted out without thinking.

“That is incorrect,” replied the door pleasantly.

John sputtered and cursed, quietly. 

“Wrong answer.”

John bit his tongue. “Repeat the question, please,” he said with a saccharine smile, even though the eagle-head (probably) couldn’t see it.

The door repeated the question, but it didn’t lessen John’s utter confusion. Rather, it worsened it. 

Something kept him from just turning around and leaving. “Right, we’re solving this damn riddle,” John murmured. 

He mouthed the question and turned it over in his head. He sat on the floor and tried drawing on the carpet with his fingers. He pretended his fingers were ropes, and made “psshhh” fire-lighting noises. 

But alas, everything he tried seemed to simply make things worse, until, finally, he groaned and stood up, hands on hips, and declared:

“Screw this, I couldn’t solve it with three hours to waste.”

“Wrong.”

“Bugger off.”

“Wro —”

“Oh, bloody hell,” said John, and turned to leave.

“Light the first rope at both ends, and the second at one end. When the first rope has completely burned, 30 minutes have gone by. Now light the other end of the second rope. When the second rope has completely burned, 45 minutes have elapsed.”

“That is correct,” chirped the door, and swung open.

“Bloody hell,” John repeated.

Sherlock Holmes stood in front of the doorway, looking so smug John could’ve slapped him.

Looking at the suitcase, Sherlock murmured a thanks, and, before John could speak, quickly unhooked the coat from the suitcase and started walking, putting it on without slowing. 

“You got lucky; if you hadn’t hurried you would’ve fell down the top stair. The password is  tenebris; latin for darkness, a tad dramatic, I would think. You can’t pronounce it correctly.”

John opened his mouth, but then closed it with tight lips, rolled his eyes, and followed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm attempting to make this story sync with the actual dates, so it could be a bit before any actual plot. But there is going to be a plot, trust me. In the meantime, enjoy some introductions!


	7. Gotta Get Back To Hogwarts

In the end, John ended up sleeping in the fifth years’ dorm, because, after all, a teenager, sharing a dorm with eleven-year olds?

Throughout the next days, John learned many things. He learned to shut his mouth when faced with the Ravenclaw riddle-me-this, and to keep it shut until, and when, Sherlock would pipe up with the answer. He learned to stop panicking when he couldn’t find a lid for his quill. He learned to skip the forty-secondth staircase, and stopped having to call for someone to pull him up from the gap he would suddenly find himself trapped in.

His classmates were all questions, painfully obvious in their attempts to casually bring it up. John replied the best he could—which was, unfortunately, not very good. “I don’t know,” made up ninety percent of his answers.

The students would then grumble with annoyance and pester him some more, but soon realised John’s guess really was as good as theirs, and eventually, John found himself entering the common room and not immediately being cornered by students.

Anyways, they had more important things on their mind. To be specific, the “owls”, as Mike had called them.

He had then gone on to explain just how _hard_ it was going to be, and how everyone had started studying already, etc, etc.

John made a face. Just his luck.

Speaking of which: John frequently borrowed Sherlock’s owl (“Jackson. Most random, unoriginal name I’ve ever heard. Won’t respond to anything else. Anything! Sodding stubborn owl.”) to write to his parents, and soon found that Sherlock was right—the owl did like him. It hooted whenever it caught sight of John, and, although it still sent food attacking, Jackson always allowed John to tie his letters without complaint.

His parents were still quite overwhelmed, as was John, but, eventually, and with lots of inside jokes tests (to make sure it wasn’t a kidnapper just pretending to be John) they’d grown to trust. Nevertheless they still pestered John with constant questions, naggings, and fusses, once owl-ing him a fully-packed lunch, complete with a juice box and a Thermos. The owl was not pleased.

So, things sorted themselves out, and, eventually, John could finally start to concentrate on his classes, and, thankfully, begin to catch up, if only a little, on four years of missed magic education.

John didn’t care how hard it was; he absolutely refused being in a class with first-years. Anderson, upon being told this, shrugged, jotted something down, and waved him away with a small slip of paper: a schedule, a mash of different classes. "Assuming you don't know the subjects very well," Anderson had said, and John nodded gratefully, scanning the paper, which he was pretty fine with.

That was how he ended up being in random classes, mostly with fifth-years, but just a bit with fourth, and thirds—John didn't really mind them, actually; they sort of just shrugged it off, upon seeing his entry. 

Sherlock, Molly, and Mike were with him in some of their classes, but apparently Sherlock Holmes had carte blanche to the school, because he somehow found a way to attend one of John's forth-year's. And no one complained, or even brought it up, when they noticed the older, dark-haired boy sitting with the usual sixth-year student. Strange, but John was too grateful to question it.

After a couple days, Anderson approached John once again, and (perhaps a bit sheepishly) apologised for waving John away so fast. He explained that this has never happened before, and that, if the need arise, John could have himself a tutor, or some after-school extra lessons. "You could do the O.W.L's later, if you wish."

After sleeping on it, John decided to, in fact, not have a tutor for now, and actually do the O.W.L's at the same time as the other fifth years. Maybe it was his Gryffindor showing, but John wanted to see how much he could catch up on, without any special aid from teachers. (Although, Sherlock was basically a tutor himself, he noted with amusement.)

He could always tell Anderson he changed his mind if he really needed to, though he hoped he wouldn't.

John studied hard. He read up on books. He paid attention in class. He even attempted to use his phone, but the connection was down—guess you can’t have the best of two worlds.

He ended up, actually, pretty decent at most subjects. Which would be great, better than that, if it weren’t for the fact that, more often than not, John would attempt a levitation for hours without success, only to have Sherlock pop up and do it for him in less than ten seconds. Similar scenes occurred in most other subjects as well.

Except for one.

Sherlock despised Astronomy.

He just couldn’t understand it. The planets, the movement, the stars and the _whatever;_ it all just seemed to be an entire waste to him.

“Why does any of it matter? Whether the Earth goes around the sun, or if the moon around Earth; if everything went around everything it wouldn’t make a penny’s worth to me, or my work.”

“Funny; you tend to think the world rotates around you,” John murmured, trying to make the telescope show something other than his eyelashes.

“Ah,” said Sherlock, quietly. “Good point.”

Either way, none of the teachers liked him very much. Scared, vaguely amused, embarrassed, annoyed, mortified, it all came together in a big Sherlockian bundle—the downside of being scarily observant and having the urge to point out humiliating facts whenever they were spotted—in other words, all the time.

-+-+-+-

John wasn’t one to make friends easily, he never was, but he was happy to say being a late wizard did not completely obliterate his chances of making any.

Even though, as quoted from Mike: “What does it mean, when the easiest friends you make are with Sherlock Holmes and a ghost?”

Mike was, in the least, surprised, or even awed, to find John capable of amiable chatter with Sherlock. “Most people can’t stand being with him in the same _room.”_

John had laughed, and shrugged it off.

However, John thought, he did have an enemy.

The Gryffindor who had cornered John the other day never did it again, only sending furious, but with underlying fear, glares towards him whenever possible. John couldn’t help but feel more than a little curious (and frightened) as to what Sherlock did, but whenever he brought the topic up Sherlock would shrug, or wink, or give a infuriatingly vague explanation, and John eventually gave up and asked his Headmaster, who paled upon the subject and told it in a nervous whisper: apparently that had been his first bully—he had lost control of himself and, in his fury, cast a body-bind spell on the poor Gryffindor, who John learned was Charles, and thrown him out the window.

It had been both his first, and his last.

John was wary of windows for quite a while after—Sherlock grinned crookedly and made some comment on teaching John the body-binding spells.

-+-+-+-

One day, during what they called “extra-practise”, John gritted his teeth and glared at his wand, as he attempted to float his spell book (open to the hovering-charm page and flat on the ground), for what must’ve been the millionth time. He tried again and again, to no avail, and John couldn’t help but wonder when he would be good enough to set it on fire.

They were in a large, empty room, originally dusty but now cleared away from John’s constant entering. Sherlock had showed it to John one day, another one of his secret passages. John wasn’t sure if magic was allowed there, but didn’t really care—he wasn’t doing anything bad.

After a couple more attempts, Sherlock held up a hand, cast a sound-proof charm, and gestured John to continue.

 _This time. This time, for sure._ John steeled himself and jabbed the wand at the spell book.

 _“WINGARDIUM LEVIOSA!!”_ he screamed, voice cracking _._ The book remained on the floor, and John could hear Sherlock’s partially held-in laughter.

“No, no, no,” he said, giggling. “You’re holding your wand way too tight. Relax a bit and loosen your grip. Now try again.”

John felt his face heat up. Nevertheless, he did as Sherlock said.

“And it doesn’t matter how loudly you recite it,” Sherlock added. “You could whisper and it still wouldn’t work.”

“Thanks,” John grumbled, and tried again, quieter, swish-and-flicking his wand.

 _“No!”_ Sherlock barked out, and John flinched. Sherlock shut his eyes, tightly, and slowly let out a breath, before speaking again, softer. “You’re holding your wand like a pencil,” he rushed out. John adjusted his grip and held it even more like a pencil.

“Just—oh, no,” Sherlock distressed, as John nearly snapped his wand in an attempt to straighten his fingers.

“Here.”

Sherlock stepped closer, reached over, took John’s fingers, and moved them to the correct position, all the while not meeting John’s eyes. “There.”

John mumbled a thanks, highly conscious of how warm Sherlock’s hands were, and tried again.

_“Wingardium Leviosa!”_

The spell book shot up. It hovered in mid-air, as if tied by an invisible string. John sucked in a breath and stared, accidentally letting his wand drop to his side; the book fell down with a dull thump. But John wasn’t aware of this, as he spun around and turned to Sherlock.

“Did you see that?! I did it!” he said, smiling brightly, happy and hyper.

Sherlock smiled, a little proudly. “Nice job,” he said simply, and John beamed.

His magic steadily improved thereafter, and although he wasn’t nearly as good as any of the others, he was still “not too shabby for a ‘first-year’,” and John felt that was good enough for now.

One october morning, John woke, checked his schedule, and, with a pang of panic, exhilaration, and anticipation, realised it was going to be their first flying lesson.

John was incredibly wary of this, especially since this one was with wizards his age, and it only increased as he eyed the tattered, ratty old broomstick they bought in Diagon Alley, that looked like it couldn’t even sweep up a pile of dust without shattering.

“Don’t worry if nothing happens,” Sherlock had told John, during breakfast. “It didn’t for me.”

“For how long?” John had asked, piqued, and Sherlock responded by silently pouting into his oatmeal. John struggled to keep his smile under control.

“Now, on three, I want you all to shout ‘up’!” the professor’s voice jolted John from his thoughts. He looked at his trembling hand, hovering over the broom. He steadied it as well as he could, and swallowed, killing the butterflies in his stomach.

“UP!”

John’s broom flew up immediately, fitting comfortably into his palm. He was so surprised he let out a small squeal, and then smiled sheepishly at the giggling classmates beside him. It was only a recap of sorts, and everyone had done it, but that didn’t stop John from beaming with pride—first time, and, most of all, better than Sherlock!

“Kick off firmly with your feet,” instructed the professor. “Keep your balance and don’t take your eyes off the front.”

John looked around frantically. Flying? Already?

The other students apparently seemed quite nonchalant, and so John swallowed, killed the now-zombie butterflies in his stomach, and gritted his teeth, keeping a firm but loose hold on the stick, just as instructed.

“One, two, three—GO!”

John kicked his feet, hard, shutting his eyes. He gasped, tightened his hand, and then he felt the wind whip his hair and he heard the wind whistle around his ears and then he opened his eyes and he was flying.

A laugh bubbled out of him, a giddy, delighted laugh. It was absolutely wonderful. He pulled at the broom, gently, and turned around to meet dozens of smiling faces all around him.

“Nice job,” commented the professor, who had, also, kicked off, and who was now hovering in front of the students. “And a very well done job to Mr. Watson here, first-time flyer!”

John beamed with pride. _Oh, Sherlock is going to flip._

Broomstick use wasn’t allowed outside of lessons, so John had to wait, agonisingly, until the day when they shared classes. Flying seemed to just came to him naturally (unlike most of the other subjects) and he improved with each passing day, until he was average, perhaps even better, than some students.

When the day finally came John confidently flew up, swooped around, and hovered about a metre up in the air. He looked over at Sherlock, whose broom flew up—and promptly smacked him in the face.

“Finally, something I’m better than you at,” John remarked. Sherlock rolled his eyes with a scowl as he glared at the broomstick with the expression of a man who wasn’t used to being amazing at everything, and absolutely hated it.

Sherlock tried again, and this time, he managed to wobble in the air, at the same height as John, for about ten seconds, until it tilted dramatically and Sherlock let out an exasperated noise, before he gracefully and easily jumped off the broomstick and landed on the ground with barely a thump. John was delighted.

But, of course, Sherlock always had to have his revenge, and it seems as though he decided that, this time, the way for this was to constantly pester John about trying out for Quidditch.

“It’s quite simple, really,” he encouraged, as they walked down the hallway together, and as they passed the Quidditch Cup and John simply glanced at it, and as Sherlock decided to take that as a reason to launch into his well-rehearsed speech, once again.

“Then do it with me!” John said back, his usual response to this speech.

Obviously John wanted to get in. It was a mish-mash of sports, while flying, on broomsticks—what could possibly be better? But one look at the sign-up sheet made him reconsider. There weren’t much people he knew, and even less of the ones he was relatively friendly with. Even worse, the Gryffindor had marched up, shoved John aside, and scribbled his name on the list with a nasty grin.

They turned a corner as Sherlock spoke again. This was usually the time he would roll his eyes with a “John, you know I’d make a fool of myself” and John would say, “Oh, and _God forbid_ that!” and Sherlock would smirk and then they would move on.

But not this time.

“Alright,” said Sherlock, so naturally John walked on for a full three seconds, almost saying his usual response, before his mind processed, and when it finally did he ran smack into a wall.

John glowered and winced as Sherlock burst into a fit of giggles. Sherlock looked around before drawing out his wand and quickly healing the bruise with a quick mutter.

John turned to Sherlock. “What, you’re serious?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Why not? It’s not like I’ll get in anyways.”

John wondered why Sherlock seemed to either completely veto something, or be utterly nonchalant about it, but didn’t question it. He found he couldn’t ever really question anything Sherlock said, or did.

“Promise?” he asked dubiously.

“Nah,” said Sherlock, breaking off in a run.

After John’s indignant cry, and after a sprint chase down a hallway and apologies to many professors, John caught Sherlock, who was lazing by the Slytherin common room entrance, by the shoulder, and turned him around.

“Come on,” he said. “Just try out with me. What’s the worst that can happen?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for ending on a sort-of-cliffhanger.


	8. Partypooper

“And that,” says Sherlock, with the arrogance of someone who knew he was right, “is the worst that can happen.”

John looked at Sherlock with smiling eyes. “Okay. But it was pretty brilliant.”

“Obviously.”

After countless prods, pleas, bargains, and threats, John and Sherlock entered the field together, one nervous but hopeful, the other annoyed and bored.

The professor had smiled upon John’s entry, it turning into horror as she laid eyes on Sherlock, who sauntered in and said, “We’d better hurry, John, she has a date after.”

“Oh, Sherlock.” The professor sighed, with a thin smile. “Let’s hope your flying skills have improved.”

Sherlock gave her a steely look and opened his mouth, only to have John wearily push him past. “Let’s go get our brooms,” he said, giving Sherlock a nervous smile, turning around and giving the professor a nod.

John had stored his broom in the Quidditch locker rooms, because where else would he, and Sherlock didn’t even care so John put his in there too. But either they were late, or no one else did this (which was unlikely), for there were only two broomsticks in the empty locker room.

Sherlock walked in and only took a couple of steps before he immediately grabbed John’s broom.

“That’s—”

“I know,” Sherlock murmured, running a hand along the broom handle. He pressed his lips together, sighed, and glowered at nothing in particular, before drawing his wand out of his robe.

“You can’t—”

 _“John,”_ said Sherlock.

John bit his lip and mumbled, “No wands during games.”

 _“I know,”_ said Sherlock, exaggerating the drag of the words. “I was the reason they made that rule.”

Looking at Sherlock with exasperation, John sat down on a bench and placed his wand, along with his bag, into a locker. He pulled out a combination lock and Sherlock glanced at it with a suppressed smile, not stopping his wand twirling in his hand.

“Well I’m sorry I can’t charm lockers to close on their own and even if I did I wouldn’t know how to open it again,” John muttered in a rapid-fire, snapping shut the lock and memorising the combination before scratching the back label.

Sherlock muttered something that didn’t sound quite english. John looked over. “What are you doing?”

Swishes of sparks were spiraling over a broomstick. John’s.

“Sherlock,” pressed John, “If you’re trying to make it fly better—”

“I would never,” Sherlock snapped. _“S_ o unfair,” he added.

“I hope you see the irony in that.”

“Charles cursed your broom,” Sherlock mumbled distastefully, ignoring John. “I’m counter-cursing it, unless you would like to end up with a concussion halfway through the practise.”

John gritted his teeth, opened his mouth, closed it, glared, and suppressed a sigh. “Only enemy I make, and it’s a vindictive brat.”

“I wouldn’t say _only_ ,” said Sherlock. “Irene Adler. Also a vindictive brat. Possibly more.” He handed John his broomstick. “That’ll be fine.”

“Thanks,” John said, a tad distrustfully, and they walked over to the field.

They were a tad late, John noted, as the students were already flying, back and over, in showy loops, and in various other tricks.

John grinned and joined in, doing the best he could, while keeping an eye on Sherlock, who looked like he wanted to set his broom on fire (which he probably could).

After a couple moments, the professor clapped her hands. “Alright, students,” she called out, “we’re going to start a game—I’ll split you up into two groups and assign your positions.”

Sherlock and John ended up on different teams; John became a Chaser and Sherlock a Beater. Sherlock looked disgusted as he handled the Bludger and studied it meticulously. John didn’t want to know what Sherlock was deducing.

The whistle blew, and the game began.

John had played Quidditch in class many times now. Swooping in the air, flying to the other side, as soon as the whistle blew, he was quickly immersed in his role. After scoring on the Keeper, the Quaffle swooping past and through the golden hoop, John hopefully glanced over to the professor—

Only to find her gaping, completely distracted, by something on the other side.

John turned around, and his job, too, was utterly forgotten.

“You with the fake tan, turn around and cut across, get that Bludger—that Gryffindor, yes, you, the one dating her, get out, no, the other way, are you _blind—_ ”

Sherlock Holmes steadied his broomstick with a curse. He caught John’s eye and shot him a wink and a smile, before turning back to his teammates and continuing to bark out commands, each one more confusing than the last. The Gryffindor had sent Sherlock a furious glare as the apparently-not-natural tanned girl shared with him a panicked look.

“You’re a _Beater!”_ the Keeper finally managed to scream out from the far side of the field, blocking a Quaffle from John, who had absentmindedly tossed it, not taking his eyes off Sherlock.

“Yes, and I, unlike anyone else, am actually doing my job!” Sherlock called back. John tilted his head and looked around, and his breath caught in his throat.

The Bludger zipped, zig-zagged, and bashed his teammates into a daze.

John muttered under his breath. He turned his eyes back to Sherlock, who had started waving his hands in the air before his broom tilted dramatically and he was forced to stop. Sherlock didn’t have a wand. But the Bludger was, indeed, moving.

Suddenly, it zoomed towards him; John’s face contorted into shock, too dazed to move—

it abruptly stopped, swerved, and whammed into another Chaser beside him. John turned, and his apology died in his throat. John grinned at a cursing Charles. “Hey, Charlie~” John said with an evil grin, wiggling his fingers.

Charles blinked and looked at John with dazed eyes. John laughed and flew away.

John flew around, looking, observing. His eyes caught Sherlock, whose eyes widened as he sharply drew in a breath. “Thorne!” he yelled stiffly, immediately biting his lip after, a hint of panic laced through the words. “North-east _!”_ he hissed.

Thorne, the Seeker, swerved his broom to look at Sherlock. “Pardon?”

“Up; no, 35 degrees, north!” Sherlock snapped, helplessly watching Thorne as he swiveled his head around to no avail.

Sherlock groaned with distraught. “You’re only -400 diopters, since when were you blinded?!”

Finally, Thorne saw it, and John did, too: a tiny flash of gold. “Found it!” Thorne called out—loudly. John suppressed a grin.

“Too late, you simple minded gnat,” Sherlock muttered. With a loud whoop, John’s team’s Seeker grasped the fluttering Snitch firmly in his hands.

“Yeah, _Zachary!”_ John shouted to the Seeker, who was beaming, surrounded by congratulating teammates.

“Good game,” said the professor weakly. "I'll let you know the teams by Friday."

They landed back down, and she turned to the other team, who had all turned on Sherlock.

“Mr. Holmes,” she then said, quietly. “I don’t suppose you’re a coach?”

“I did my job,” snapped Sherlock, “and better than all you dimwits.”

“Magic during Quidditch is forbidden. You of all people should know that.”

“No,” replied Sherlock, “it isn’t. _Wands_ are forbidden. Magic is not.” He smirked. “And to think it was _you_ who made that rule.”

 _“_ I _-You,”_ the professor stammered, face turning red.

“Woah, there,” John said gently, jokingly, trying to coax Sherlock away. “Tryouts are over, now, don’cha think?”

“Hey, hold on, you’re not going anywhere.”

“Ah, we really ought to get going; you don’t want to late for your date!” John gave the professor a flimsy smile and grabbed Sherlock’s wrist, leading him away.

“He hates your haircut!” Sherlock called out behind him. John squeezed his wrist, and Sherlock rolled his eyes but continued walking with a satisfied smile.

Re-entering the castle, John asked, “How’d you know he hates her haircut?”

“Everyone does.”

-+-+-+-

The days turned to weeks, the leaves began to turn colour, and one day, John watched with a peaceful ambiance as they twirled onto the ground with a soft gust of wind. Autumn was full upon them.

John was much too old to go trick-or-treating anymore, but he still felt the thrill of the holiday.

There was a Halloween Feast, John knew—and highly anticipated. As the days drew closer, he delighted in the small decorations appearing in classrooms, the candles in the Great Hall turning orange and black and pumpkin-and-apple-scented.

And as the days slowly drew nearer, John (perhaps from having inhaled too much black glitter for his hat) had gone a tad overboard and charmed the armchairs in the Gryffindor common room to screech and shriek, whenever sat on—it ended in less than an hour, with the Headmaster trying to hold back a smile as he counter-charmed the squashy chairs, but to be fair, it was pretty great to see the students scream (along with the chair.)

In Transfiguration (fourth-year, one that Sherlock somehow managed to enter), the students had attempted to turn a rat, into a bat. John, after creating a terrifying creature, with short, scurrying paws and wildly flapping wings, finally managed to turn the poor scuttling rodent into a fluttering bat.

Sherlock was busy giving his bat long red fangs and a spiked tail.

Sherlock watched (moodily, but with a lazy smirk) as John continued to turn the bat into a cat, his own “bat” confisticated and nowhere to be found.

When All Hallows’ Eve finally descended upon Hogwarts, John woke with a chill in his spine.

When the Feast finally dawned upon them, John was delighted to find it not disappointing, nor overrated, in the slightest. The Feast was absolutely wonderful. John had never seen one that had even come close to anything like it. The ghosts swooped around them, howling in harmony, wailing out a ghastly tune, the candles flickering, wildly blown. The food was pure heaven—John had never had such a feast in his life.

It had even gone as far as allowing the students to sit wherever they wished to sit. A bit of a mistake, John thought as he maneuvered the crowds, ears ringing. Deafening, boisterous crowds of friends swarmed the Great Hall, as live spiders and bats scuttled and swooped in cages—some out of them. John had taken extra care to avoid the spiders.

At one point, John spotted Sherlock mixing all the drinks (and some more) at the table into one barf-coloured glass, waving his wand and muttering rapid-fire strings of latin or french of whatever. John had left before anything else had happened. 

And that's how, after an hour or so, John wound up in a corner, chatting to one or two people and also some of the ghosts, watching on as some kid chugged down half a gallon of Butterbeer, and mostly just hanging about. Things were good, he thought, a bit drowsily.

And then everything went to hell.

One moment John’s sipping his pumpkin-spiced-butterbeer, the other everyone’s screaming. Starting near the doors, it slowly spread like wildfire.

John craned his neck, tingles shooting down his spine, but only saw hundreds of heads, armed with each and every one of their screams.

Anderson, with his askew hat and less-than-formal attire, stood up on a table, cast a spell that made everyone’s ears pop, and cupped his hands to his mouth.

“Everyone, stay calm!” he shouted, voice amplified by a hundred. The Great Hall almost immediately dwindled down to a dead silence.

Anderson hopped down, and the next thing he said was so quiet, no one would’ve been able to hear it if not for how silenced the entire room now was. “Hello,” he said tightly.

John gritted his teeth and jumped up and down, stretching his neck.

He came down with huge eyes and a pounding heart. A glimpse was all he needed.

Molly Hooper lay unconscious on the floor.

Her hair was singed, tips blackened, as was her clothes. Her eyes were closed in an eerie peacefulness. And what stood before her… John gaped and tried not to whimper.

The half man, half house whinnied. “If it wasn’t Molly, I wouldn’ve risked this.” She prodded the floor and gazed at the crowd with obvious displeasure. “Found her in one of those firebush caves. Should’ve foreseen it… I thought you took care of your students.”

He snorted and turned around, breaking off into a trot.

“Wait!” Anderson shouted out, shattering the silence. But it was too late. The centaur galloped away at full-speed, leaving behind a sprawled and burnt Molly.

-+-+-+-

“Recap everything,” Sherlock pressed on.

“I’m sorry,” Molly mumbled, twiddling her bandages. She took a breath and blinked hard, clasping her hands together.

“I love Herbology, and the Forbidden Forest is brimming with plants. I go there, secretly, a lot. All the creatures there know me. I used to purposely get detentions, just for the sake of exploring. But I’ve learned that no one really notices when I’m gone.”

John bit his lip and looked at Molly with a mix of pity, sympathy, and anger, but her eyes were closed. “I don’t really like the Feasts,” she said plainly. “I wanted to see the forest.”

“I didn’t know it would happen. I think I heard something… like a thud? So I wandered into one of those caves, but I’ve done it before, you just have to be a bit careful around them.” She frowned slightly. “If it weren’t for Titania, I could’ve died.”

Molly shivered. “I might’ve tripped. Into the fire? I can’t remember, I really can’t. I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” John said, and Molly smiled nervously (John’s assumption of her when they first met, seemed to be correct). What she was about to say next was cut off as the nurse hustled in.

“Time’s up, boys!” she said, clapping her hands. “Molly needs to rest.”

John rose from his seat with reluctance. He gave Molly one final look, and followed Sherlock out of the room.

“Got anything?” he said tentatively, as they walked down the hall.

“Never speculate before the facts are clear.”

John rolled his eyes, and then frowned as he looked around his surroundings, which wasn’t near any of their dorms, but still somehow seemed strangely familiar. As they turned a corner, John realised: it was the portrait, the secret passage.

Whispering something to the portrait, it swung open, and Sherlock stepped in halfway. “Anderson’s given me permission,” he said before John could ask.

Sherlock peered at John, tilting his head slightly.

“You like mysteries?”

“Love ‘em.”

A slight pause, and then Sherlock turned to face John fully, with a very faint smile.

“Want one in real life?”

“Oh, _Gods,_ yes,” uttered John, and he hustled into the portrait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well this was originally going to be Halloween-y, but that was pushed back to next week, so I guess... happy early Halloween!


	9. Marimba

“How’re we gonna know which cave it is?” asked John, jogging to keep up with Sherlock’s annoyingly long legs.

“Look at those footprints. Beautifully fresh. These,” Sherlock said, pointing at a pair, “are from when she left, and these are the centaur’s. From how the dirt’s hardened, it would’ve been no more than, say, thirty minutes before he found her.”

John crouched down — with a bit of effort, due to the tacky neon-orange snowsuit his mother insisted he wear — and poked at a footprint he couldn’t see, nodding slowly. “Ah, I see.”

“No, you don’t.”

Silence. John smiled away from Sherlock, and stood up. “Well, then. Shall we explore the Forbidden Forest?” he said grandly, articulating the words carefully, pointedly. 

Sherlock sighed. “That’s just to warn curious students. What’s in a name?”

“That which we call a rose; by any other name would smell as sweet.”

They walked along a dirt-ridden, barely-visible path, in silence. John, seeing Sherlock’s utter concentration, decided not to break it, and instead decided to simply observe his surroundings. 

If a muggle had been passing by and had given it a quick glance, it wouldn’t seem like anything out of the ordinary. However from what John could see, he knew this was definitely not the case.

The trees had gnarled branches, twisting and tumbling, high canopies rustling in the brisk breeze. Leaves fluttering off, twirling down, a speckled maple gently, almost floating, resting itself onto Sherlock’s curly hair. 

John’s fingers twitched as Sherlock annoyingly brushed it off. 

John could see why Molly wanted to be here (another part of him insisted she would be insane to explore this place on the night of Halloween, but, hey, she was used to it; to each their own, he supposed.) All flora and fauna. The former, John didn’t see much of, but the latter he observed with high attention. Some had bugs fluttering out, some seemed to be glowing, a pale shine through the inky blackness, some opened and closed arbitrarily, dream-like. 

“I… can see why it could be Forbidden,” John quietly commented.

Sherlock gave a quick, small shrug. He then paused his steps and crouched down. He traced an invisible footprint and stood back up with a shining gleam in his eye.  _ Thrill of a case,  _ John thought to himself bemusedly.

“Here it is.” 

John looked towards Sherlock’s gaze and saw a large cave. The inside seemed to be full of light, seeming brighter due to the lack thereof outside, and a soft crackling could be heard. With an absentminded nod, Sherlock began to walk in. 

John followed, however as he approached, he faltered at the glowing mouth, with twisted fiddling fingers. 

Sherlock glanced back and smirked.

“Scared, Watson?”

John glared and walked in.

He slowly, carefully, approached the centre of the cave, eyes wide, staring, at a huge, bonfire-like plant, roaring in the dark, casting flickering shadows on the rough walls. 

John stared, mouth open. His hands trembled.

Sherlock walked up beside John and silently knelt beside him. John looked over, made a small noise in his throat, coughed, and blinked, hard. He took a shaky breath and stilled his shivers. He bit his lip and kept silent. 

_ Irrational. Stop. _

He shoved part of his mind away and shut it down.

Eyes illuminated and incandescent, reflecting the wild red-and-orange, Sherlock stared at the fire, tracing it with his eyes. He glanced at the floor, then back up, shuffling to another angle. He leaned in, and John felt his pulse increase as he watched Sherlock slowly creep towards the fire, closer and closer, until his robe was a millimetre away.

With a loud whoosh and crackle, the fabric sprang up in flames. John screamed; Sherlock fell onto his back, rolled over, and sprang up in one continuous motion.

Sherlock inspected his now darkened sleeve. He looked at a wide-eyed John and mockingly brushed his pant legs, sharply, twice. He shot John a bright smile. “Yep, those burns are definitely from fire.”

John mumbled, not caught up yet. “Uh… yeah. They’re  _ burns.” _

“Ok, well… Juuust checking,” drawled Sherlock with a lopsided grin. John rolled his eyes and snickered. 

Sherlock tucked away a giggle and straightened his face. He spun on a heel, pursed his lips, and began to stroll around the cave. John watched on with increasing curiosity, trying to see what is was that Sherlock could, and finding that he couldn’t.

“Look at this mess,” Sherlock muttered with disgust as he kicked at a spot on the cave floor. “I should’ve been here before the centaur trampled over all the footprints like… well,” Sherlock smiled wryly, “a centaur.”

“Sowhaddyagot?” John blurted out, words squished together, curiosity taking over the better of him.

“Give me some time,” complained Sherlock. John quieted, nodded, and walked into a corner to observe. But then his footsteps slowed. 

“Hey, Sherlock?” John said meekly. Hearing his tone, Sherlock immediately strided over. 

John pointed to a pile of dust in the corner. Various ashes and marks obscured the entirety. “Is this normal?”

“Define normal,” Sherlock murmured, gleaming eyes fixated on the ashes. He took a little pile and gathered it up in a small cloth he drew from his robe pocket, looking quite pleased.

“Right then,” he added suddenly. “Let’s go.”

He dashed out of the cave. John yelled after him, breaking off into an awkward jog. As he watched Sherlock’s coat flip-flap away, John thought he heard a wisp of laughter.

-+-+-+-

It was only much later, during the wee hours of the morning, when the portrait finally opened, after John had mumbled the impossible pronunciation about a dozen times, when he finally staggered into his dorm, trying to be quiet, but not really caring anymore, when he basically collapsed into his bunk bed, the leaves in his hair crunching onto the pillow. The mattress felt like mashed potatoes, John thought deliriously.

It was only then. His mind relaxed, memories twisting, woven into dreams, when the barricade was breached, and the thought wormed its way in.

His panic, his fear, that moment, crouched in the cave, the trigger. Familiar.

Fire.

-+-+-+-

_ *Marimba* _

John opened his eyes and groaned quietly. He closed his eyes and sighed. 

_ *Marimba* _

John shifted in the bunk, and winced. He slowly drew a twig out of his robe sleeve. He squinted, looked at the twig, and glanced at his mattress. 

Whoop. Mud. He sighed again and dropped his head back down onto his probably-also-muddy pillow.

_ *Marimba* _

“Ah, shut up,” droned a voice from below his bunk. 

“You heard him,” drawled John, flexing his fingers and wiggling his toes but otherwise refusing to move.

_ *Marimba* _

“Shut up!” Mike called out, and John heard a faint rustling, muttered curses. John smiled lazily as Mike’s scowling head popped up and he grabbed John’s phone.

“Right, how do you…” Jabbing at the phone with one straight pointed index finger, Mike drew squiggles and swirls. “ _ Nox! _ No, that’s not it… Why isn’t it working? I’m, er, swiping!”

_ *Marimba* _

John buried his head in his pillow and sighed, again. “Gimme,” he muttered, holding out a hand.

“No, wait — _ ‘home button’ _ … got it!” Mike shouted triumphantly and held up the phone like the Statue of Liberty.

“Really,” John muttered, and slipped the phone into his robe pocket.

He went into the bathroom to take a shower. However, the moment the water hit his hair, he knew he had just made a terrible mistake . 

“Oh,  _ bugger,”  _ John muttered as he furiously scrubbed, uselessly, at his scalp, now plastered with soggy leaves.

_ *Marimba* _

“What the hell…?” Drawing aside the curtain, John looks at his vibrating phone on the counter.

_ *Marimba* _

_ “... MIKE!”  _

“What’s up, mate?” Mike’s voice rang out. John kept silent.

_ *Marimba* _

A strangled gasp. “ _ Shut it up! I did like you said!”  _

John sighed (screams, gasps, and now sighs) and let the hot water run down his face. How Mike managed to do this every time, he didn’t know. “Let me turn it off next time, alright?”

He stepped out of the shower to turn off the alarm (for real this time) with speckles of crushed leaf in his dirty blond hair.

“Hold on,” Mike mumbled as John exited the bathroom. “What —” 

“It’s all Sherlock’s fault,” John grumbled as he left the dorm.

-+-+-+-

Sherlock refused to magic the leaves out. “It’s very fashionable,” he suggested with a grin.

“It’ll dry,” John grumbled, mostly to himself. Then: “Got anything about Molly?”

“Depends,” hummed Sherlock as he sipped his porridge.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“On what’s in this porridge,” Sherlock said, draining it and dashing away.

-+-+-+-

John went through his lessons that day mostly with fourth-years. He found that he didn’t really mind it anymore. The students were all rather kind, much more than most of the ones his age. Well, oerhaps they were just intimidated. Not by him, but definitely Sherlock. John couldn’t help but think they all sighed with relief when he, and only he, entered the classroom.

For some reason, Sherlock wasn’t in any of the classes today.  _ Oh well,  _ mused John. He was probably out and about, solving crimes and whatnot.

_ No “extra-practise” tonight, I guess. _

John was getting rather mediocre at his subjects, mostly due to him constantly pestering Sherlock for assistance. That secret room was now constantly in use, slowly filling up with books and quills. 

It wasn’t just Sherlock helping John, either—coincidentally, most things Sherlock struggled in, John did not. Which was why one day Sherlock found himself balancing on a broom, hanging from a string from the ceiling.

( _ “This is ridiculous,” Sherlock spat as he swatted at the string. “Couldn’t you just have used a levitation charm?” _

_ “No,” John said firmly. “It’s your balance that needs work. This is the easiest way.” _

_ “Yes, only for you,” Sherlock muttered as he toppled off the broom. _ )

Another subject John helped Sherlock in, was Muggle Studies. The moment John heard about it he signed up, because, come on, that would pretty much be the easiest subject ever.

And it was. 

He didn’t even bring a textbook, but managed to convince the professor in letting him stay anyways, because he was “a living lesson plan”.

John grinned as he entered the classroom, this one with fifth-years like him.

They studied muggle electricity today. It was child’s play.

This time, after the lesson was over and students filed out of the room, John walked up to the professor with a smile on his face and an idea in his heart.

“Professor,” he said sweetly, “may I suggest a topic?”

That day, John walked out of Muggle Studies with a huge grin.

-+-+-+-

Today was a Friday. During his free period, John lay on his top bunk, with Mike on the bottom one, and they went through their usual routine on Fridays.

Since John’s first morning at Hogwarts, when he was miserably late (not to mention lost) for all his classes, he had set an alarm on his phone. 

Big mistake.

The moment Mike heard the alarm, he shouted in… well, alarm (ayyy!) and ran from the bathroom, to John, grabbing the ringing phone from his bed and effectively spraying John with water from his dripping hair.

“What in the name of Merlin is this?”

Rubbing his eyes, John sat up. “Oh, right, I forgot you guys have been, like, living in a hole for the past decades.”

Mike looked at him. John sighed. “It’s a cell phone.”

Silence. Then:

_ *Marimba* _

Mike gasped. John grimaced and snatched it from Mike’s hands, successfully silencing it. 

“It’s my alarm. So I wake up on time?”

Mike gazed at the phone with wonder.

“Wait,” said John. “How do  _ you _ wake up?”

_ “ _ _ Ululate horologium,” _ said Mike, effectively making John as confused as Mike when confronted with a phone.

“Sorry, what?”

Mike gave John an apologetic smile. “Sorry, mate, but I woke up early today to study for the Transfiguration test. I’ll tell you later.”

“But,” John protested, and when Mike belted out another apology and dashed out the dorm, John threw aside his blankets and trotted off after him, bare footed and pyjama-ed.

No less than a second later, he had stepped on a random sharp object.

“John,” Mike said with exasperation as he turned and found John nursing his foot with silent agony. “I said I’d tell you later.”

“Yes, yes, I know,” John rushed out, hopping along on one foot. “You have the same free period as me. Meet me at our dorms then. I’ll show you the wonders of my phone, and maybe you’ll finally give me some answers about how you guys can survive without wifi.”

Mike opened his mouth with a confused expression, but John was hurrying back to the dorms. “Free period!” he called out behind him.

And thus the “Wizard-and-Muggle-Question-Exchange” (hey, John never was good at naming things, and neither was Mike) was created. Once a week, they’ve set a tradition of sorts. John would answer Mike’s questions about Muggles, phones, wifi, pens, thermoses, and so on, while Mike would do so with John.

“Do you guys seriously just use quills and inkwells?”

“Yeah, what else? Do muggles really not owl?”

“No, we don’t. Owls are an annoying, inefficient, stupid way of getting in touch. We e-mail and phone, occasionally write a letter, in which case we actually mail it, in a mailbox. And we use pens. Please explain O.W.L’s more.”

“Ordinary Wizarding Level; like a big test we do at the end of fifth-year. If you pass you continue doing that subject. It’s very hard. That’s the simplest I will ever be able to explain it.”

“So… like, uh, GCSE’s?” John himself didn’t understand GCSE’s very well (he was homeschooled, after all), so when Mike gave John a strange, confused look, he shook his head. “Nevermind. It’s fine. How do moving pictures work? Like, what would happen if you smashed a portrait when the person’s moving?”

“That’s horrible!” Mike gasped. “Why would you want to do that?”

“Uh… if the person in the portrait’s evil?”

Mike laughed weakly. “Can’t answer that, mate, and I wouldn’t want to know either.”

“Fair enough.”

“What’s a pen? Or, er,” Mike thought for a moment, “wa-fa?”

“Are you kidding me?”

And on they went, with Mike occasionally casting spells for demonstration, John ending up having to pull everything out of his suitcase and spreading it out on the floor (they were the only inhabitants of the dorm, so it was fine), sometimes owl-ing his parents for a camera, or a radio, or something of the type.

It was strange, John mused. He often thought magic was the best thing that could ever happen. But it wasn’t. They didn’t have wi-fi (“wa-fa”), for starters. Horrible. They’ve never had pop-rocks before (“you mean the candy that explodes? Those are terrible! I had to be sent to the hospital!”) Wizards would never experience the euphoria of Santa Claus, or the Tooth Fairy (“we do have fairies, but none of them collect teeth”). They would never understand the joy of Mario Kart.

Maybe not. Maybe they could.

As John wondered, an idea wormed its way into his mind.


	10. Case Closed, #1

 John grabbed Sherlock’s shoulders and spun him around. 

" _Sherlock Holmes,"_ he hissed, “Mike says I’m an idiot for being friends with you. Maybe he’s right. So will you  _ please _ tell me what happened?”

Sherlock stiffened and paused. “Okay.”

“Anderson was congratulating me on the solved case, not very subtly reminding me to give him a referral to Mycroft. I was about to go check on Molly Hooper in the hospital. Anderson — ”

“I want to know how you  _ solved  _ it, not the aftermath,” John cut in abruptly, annoyed. 

“Oh. In that case, we’ll need some time,” said Sherlock as he began to walk, and John could do nothing but follow.

“So, how I solved it. When Molly was dropped off, per se, in front of the doors, I studied her burns. The way they were distributed did correspond to the way someone would’ve been burnt if fallen near a fire, in this case the fire-seed bush.

“There was, however, one specific patch that had more prominent blistering than the rest, and I immediately noticed it was in the very vague shape of an oval. Perhaps it was a way of the fire-seed bush, but I wouldn’t check that until later.

“I know ways to tell if people are lying; some bite their lip, some shrug, some look away, bounce their leg, et cetera.”

“Hold on,” John said following Sherlock as he strode purposefully to god-knows-where, “so, what do I do?”

“Oh ho,” said Sherlock with a smirk, “so you’ve lied since you’ve met me.”

_ “Not  _ what I’m implying,” John protested. 

Sherlock laughed. “I know. And it’s really not a very reliable method, anyways. You could fake it, double bluff, triple bluff, and so on.

“Anyways.”

“As far as I could tell, the centaur wasn’t involved in anything. He was just in the right place at the wrong time. Or, vice-versa, I suppose. Molly Hooper would lie about little, and she had already revealed her skipping classes, with little to no regret. I don’t think she would think about lying in her condition. And I’m sure she wouldn’t lie to me.”

“Wait,” said John.

Sherlock’s footsteps slowed. “Did you not notice? Her look? What she was about to ask before the nurse entered?”

John’s realisation slowly came, and he made a noise of exasperation. “Why are you so self-centered?”

“It’s just fact.”

“But she…” John made another noise. “How do you know she, well,  _ if, _ she liked you and, uh, not me?”

“I just do,” said Sherlock, and continued without another word on that subject.

“Anyways,” he said (with a pointed look when John opened his mouth), “Either Molly really did just fall in accidentally, or she was mind-wiped. Not many students are able to cast this spell without mistakes, but, as you well know, the ones who can, are the ones most likely to.

“The centaur’s footprints, and Molly’s, match with their description of the events, and as I said then, the times do too. But anyways.”

“I viewed the fire-seed bush at the angle that matched the mark Molly made when she supposedly fell, but didn’t see anything that would make the oval burn. Then you, Watson, pointed out that little pile of ash in the corner, which I can say now was very vital to the case.

“I collected some of the ash, as you remember, and my studies showed two things: one, pearl dust, which I will get to later. And the other: the powdery ash, you see, it used to be an ashwinder.”

“Er, sorry, what?”

Sherlock made an impatient noise. They had somehow exited the school one point or another, and the two were now taking a stroll around the castle of Hogwarts. John glanced at the leaf-ridden ground, crunching as many as he could, before casting his eyes back up to Sherlock.

“Ashwinders are snake-like creatures that rise from dying magical fires, where they slither into a corner to lay their eggs and die into dust, or ash, within an hour. Now you know.”

“So far, we know the fire died, and an ashwinder rose from the embers and laid its eggs in the corner. The eggs could’ve re-lit the fire, but that does not explain Molly’s burns. It seems she was burned by one of the eggs, and it wasn’t by accident—the mark was on her arm, and not on the right angle for her to fall onto it. Therefore we can assume somebody had used the burning egg as a weapon, or self-defense, we do not know yet. Following?”

John nodded. “Following.”

Sherlock smiled. “Good. What happened next was a stroke of luck. As I went to bed, I found something wedged in the bottom of my shoe. A rose thorn.”

“O…kay,” John said as Sherlock turned to give John that “the case is coming together” look. “So?”

“A rose thorn, John. A type of rose that does not grow near that area of the forest. I even tracked down Molly’s steps—she did not go anywhere near those roses.”

“So Molly had roses.”

“No,” said Sherlock, “She did not. Her footprints hadn’t strayed from the path, and if she had been carrying them they would’ve burned in the fire. This rose thorn had no trace of scorching.”

“Okay, okay,” said John, practically bouncing as he walked. “So now what?”

“Well,” said Sherlock with a smile. “Why don’t you summarise for us?”

“Er… alright. So Molly entered the cave, where she presumably was burnt with… someone, carrying—or, floating or something—the eggs. That person was also holding, um, roses… and, oh, right, um, pearl dust, too. And she, or he, to hide her identity, or her purpose or doing, then… pushed her into the fire and wiped her memories?” John added uncertainly.

“Well, that’s what we think,” said Sherlock breezily. “But overall correct.”

“So far, you know that much, but I knew more. Rose thorns, ashwinder eggs, and pearl dust—now, isn’t that a strange combination? Not if you’ve been paying attention in Potions, which I presume you haven’t.”

John gave a little pout.

“Rose thorns, frozen ashwinder eggs, and pearl dust are vital ingredients to a love potion.”

“Ohhh,” said John. “Getting dramatic here.”

“I have the advantage of knowing almost everyone in Hogwarts, and we’ve narrowed down the suspects: a wizard strong enough to keep a hovering charm and use it to their advantage in attack or defense, is strong enough to create a memory charm, and who is… let’s say,  _ determined,  _ enough to cover their tracks, enough to push a girl into a fire.”

“I had a vague idea, but needed some time. Whoever created the potion would realise I was on their tracks, and would need to do whatever they needed to do fast. Another method would be to wait until the metaphorical dust had settled, but from what they did to Molly, I can assume they’re pretty impatient.

“The next stage was very, very easy, and very, very lucky. The porridge—it was laced with love potion. The scent was masked the best they could, but I could smell it. Obviously.”

“But… so why did you drink it?!” shouted John incredulously, remembering that day, how Sherlock practically chugged the bowl of its contents.

“Well…” Sherlock shrugged. “Love potions do have an effect of the drinker being slightly… addicted.”

John groaned and Sherlock grinned.

“Thankfully, I’ve had experience with love potions before, don’t ask, please, and I know I’m strong enough to stay at least a tad, say, lucid during its effective stage. I simply had to play along.”

“So you drugged yourself on purpose.”

“You could say that.”

“And then the suspect was clear.”

Sherlock paused dramatically, and John’s breath stilled, the fog of his breath fading away into the sky.

“Irene Adler.”

“Ah,” John said shortly. “Should’ve guessed, I suppose.”

Sherlock nodded. “Anyways. 

“Immediately I felt quite infatuated, and I have to say…” he grimaced, “it was rather easy to play along. Especially considering…” he dashed out a quick wink, and John’s face flushed, despite the brisk evening air.

“Anyways,” John prompted, trying to hide his fluster, rather unconvincingly.

“Anyways. Irene and I, we took a little stroll around Hogwarts—rather strange, aren’t we, skipping classes without a care—and she revealed her reason.” Sherlock sighed. “Incredibly plain. I was almost disappointed when she asked. Not even dramatic. Password to Mycroft’s office.”

“Ohhhh,” John said, dawning upon. “Clever.”

“Not as much as I wanted,” Sherlock muttered, and John couldn’t help but giggle at how disappointed he looked. _ Really! _

“So you denied, laughed in her face, revealed your true identity, and strode away.”

Sherlock looked away, not knowing whether to smile or scowl. “I wish. Not my fault,” he mumbled. “Her potion skills have improved over the years.”

“I told Anderson to follow me after breakfast. He was more than happy to do so, with a bribe of a referral to Mycroft—if only he knew my referrals almost always give the person a smaller chance.” Sherlock snorted. “He almost betrayed; I had to stare him down before he jumped out of the bushes.”

“In fact,” Sherlock added, stopping his steps, “these ones here. See—” he pointed at a rather large… bald spot on the bushes. 

John imagined Anderson erupting from the leaves, panting, accusing finger pointed at Irene, and snickered.

“Anyways,” Sherlock said again, starting up his stride once more, “he accused Adler of drugging me, she denied it, and I was too drugged to do anything. We all took this particular path and had a nice little chat.”

“If Irene didn’t have her blackmail, she would’ve been expelled on her first day. In the end, there was no hard evidence of her injuring Molly, even with my clues. We settled on a good forty points deducted from Slytherin, and we all went on our own ways.”

“Oh, and one more thing—it wasn’t a one-man army. Turns out, you’ve given both yourself and I another enemy.”

“Good ‘ol Charlie,” chirped John sardonically, after a moment of thought.

“Mm-hmm. They’ve teamed up. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve begun dating. You weren’t completely correct that day; Irene  _ does  _ like cowards—they’re so easy to manipulate.”

“That’s dark.”

“ _ She’s  _ dark.”

John hummed with thought, as they entered the castle.

“That’s all there is. Irene’s attempt to use me as a pawn.” Sherlock spoke these words lightly, and yet there was a sharpness to his tone that implied anything but. 

“And there’s the end of your first mystery,” pronounced Sherlock grandly as they walked back down the halls, “they’re never quite this simple; there were many, many strokes of luck in this particular one. I suppose Irene’s family’s gotten in quite a bind; she left behind a perfect trail of breadcrumbs.” 

They had now stopped at the familiar crossroad where John would turn to his common room, and Sherlock to his, the place where, unconsciously, John found the two always stalling, stopping, here, for just a little while more.

“Still a rather fine mystery, if you ask me,” murmured John with a yawn. 

Sherlock smiled, softly, and they each walked to their dorms for a well-deserved night’s sleep.

-+-+-+-

“Let me in!”

“Hey!”

“Stop it!”

“Quit pushing!”

John winced as he eyed the crowd of Quidditch players, complaining and shouting in one big pile, hands scrabbling over the list, trailing down, looking for their names. People groaned, people muttered, others cheered and whooped. 

Some smarter, more talented wizards simply watched from a distance, wands a twirl and eyes fixated.

John watched. No wand. He fiddled his fingers, picking at his cuticle, biting his lip. Not joining the swarm of bodies.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock hummed in answer.

“You gonna go check?”

He snorted. “Nope,” he said, clicking the “p”.

John furrowed his brow and frowned. A moment of silence as the two waited, both for the other to speak. John gave in first, as usual, and sighed. “Care to tell me why?”

“You made it, and Charles, and Zachary, and some more; and Mike and I, along with some others, did not.”

John gave Sherlock an exasperated look, not even absorbing the information, nor celebrating. “I suppose you’ve, ah, used an enlarging spell?”

“No.”

Another silence, and this time, Sherlock lost.

He smiled, askew. “Snuck a peek at her clipboard.”

“Oh. Fair enough.” John shrugged and then smiled, and then looked at Sherlock and frowned. “Sorry you didn’t make it.”

Sherlock huffed. “I didn’t  _ want  _ to make it anyways.”

John stifled a smirk. “Sure.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't want to stretch this particular mystery on. It's my first attempt at a "case", per se, so apologies if it's not very well written. Anyways, I hope you still enjoyed <3


	11. Lessons and Letters

“Good afternoon, students. Today we will be starting a new unit.”

He turned around and scribbled on the board, _Muggle Culture and Entertainment._

“But before we begin, may I introduce myself?”

He stood on his tiptoes again, and wrote on the top of the board:

_Dr. John Watson._

Trying his utmost best not to burst into giggles, John turned to look at the baffled fifth-years—and a teacher. “Our dear professor was ever so kind as to allow me to teach this class. As you well know, I have been mingling with Muggles, and therefore delving into their culture, ever since I was born.” He spoke in an extremely exaggerated, pompous, incredibly obnoxious voice, and beamed at the class. Many students exchanged looks, which John all ignored. The professor seems to be regretting her decision.

“We shall begin by studying Muggle entertainment, most importantly their digital ‘movies’, and ‘tv shows’.” John said this while making air-quotes, too much enjoying the confused looks everyone was giving him. “This will give us an insight to their ways of keeping their boredom at bay, without Quidditch, magic, or anything or the sort.”

“But first of all. Any questions?”

Sherlock lifted his hand off the desk.

“Yes, Mr. Holmes?” John asked dramatically.

“Dr. Watson, may I save you future embarrassment by informing you of your incorrect tying of a tie?”

John looked down at his hasty, “good enough” knot. “Shoot.”

“And your incorrect usage of Dr?”

John rolled his eyes. “Oh well. Whatever. Let’s just get started, shall we?”

He walked to the corner of the classroom, where a large tarp was draped over an unknown object. John tugged at it until it suddenly slid off. He awkwardly jumped out of the way, revealing:

“Ta-da!” chirped John, “a projector.”

“Don’t ask me how I managed to find this,” he added. “Very long and boring story.”

Clapping loudly to draw the attention of the ever-growing confusion of the students, John said, “Your homework this class is to write a paper on a theory on how this projector works. Feel free to examine this machine, or speculate to your liking. I’m not looking for a right answer, I want to see your observations.”

“However!” he said loudly, “there is one important rule. You must,” he emphasised, “use a pen and paper.”

He watched the students furrow their brows and he beamed. “That’s right. No quills, no fancy parchment. A _pen_ . A lined sheet of _paper.”_

“Find these two however you like,” he continued cheerfully,  writing “PEN” and “LINED PAPER” on the board, underlining it twice. “And now, we shall delve into the mysteries of tv!”

Ignoring whispers and accusations, John happily wheeled the projector over to the centre of the classroom, and turned it on. He began to walk to the side of the classroom in search of a light switch, until he noticed and remembered that there were candles everywhere, rolled his eyes, huffed, and walked all around the room, blowing each one of them out, taking care not to stare into the fire. “Ooh, peppermint,” he said absentmindedly, inhaling.

“Okay!” he said loudly, again. “Now let’s begin.”

As John inserted the disk and the screen illuminated on the wall, John was pleased to see Sherlock’s reaction, which was, for once, not incredibly differentiating from the others. Many stood up. One yanked out his wand, only to be glared and pointed at by John.

“Nuh-uh,” he said sternly, “it’s not ‘dark magic’ or whatever. And no, it’s not one of those creepy magical photos, either. Muggle technology, ‘kay? Just trust me on this one. I’m more Muggle than all of you.”

The students glared at an increasingly smug John, and reluctantly sat down as they eyed the screen.

John grinned at the baffled teacher and took back his seat, watching the tv show with cheeriness from the thought that he had just made this class a whole lot easier.

-+-+-+-

_September 10, 2016:_

_Hi mom, hi dad,_

_How’s our friendly house ghost doing?_

_There. Now you know it’s me._

_Sorry for not writing sooner. Things have been… busy, to say the least. You know, finding out you’re actually a wizard and all that? Yeah._

_To be honest, it doesn’t make a ton of things a ton easier_ — _well, I’ve never actually been to “real” school, but nonetheless I imagine it wouldn’t be so different from Hogwarts. Well, I can’t put it in words. The, concept of school, I suppose. The fact that you still have to study (except now it’s Transfiguration, and Potions, and stuff like that.) That the teachers are all pretty strict. Stuff like that, I guess it would stay the same no matter what._

_It’s been a rather bumpy road, getting used to all the magic around here. Did you know they have ghosts? Just casually floating around? I even befriended one! I guess ghosts are all just naturally attracted to me, eh?_

_You’ve probably noticed this strange paper, and this strange ink, and this strange letter-and-wax-seal thingy that I have no idea how to do, will probably do it wrong, and will probably burn my fingers on. Cause guess what? They don’t have paper! Or pens! Or, like, pencils and erasers and markers and glitter glue and sequins or anything! Oh, right_ — _they don’t even have wi-fi! I have to tie this letter to an owl leg! With…  twine or something! And it’s apparently going to fly all the way over to you! Um, actually, I’m not even sure it knows where I live. Shoot. This might not even receive._

_There are more problems than I thought. Seriously, you’d think they’d figure out like a magic-message-projectory thing or something by now._

_I guess I’ll just wait and see. Write your letter (not too long, please) and tie it to this friendly owl’s leg. If it even gets there._

_Oh, and, um, please don’t do anything to the owl. I have a nagging picture in my mind of poor Jackson kept in a cage and being interrogated, because that’s definitely something you guys would do. It’s not mine. See, we, Sherlock (I’ll get to him later) Lestrade, and I went to this diagonally alley_ — _sorry, Diagon Alley, even though it’s not diagonal, and I got a bunch of books, which I haven’t started on at all; a quill and parchment, which is being used here, even though I would much rather you send me some paper and a pen, thank you very much; a cauldron for brewing sinister potions (mwahaha); a broomstick, which, by the way, I am totally pro at; and like, a pet: I have this awesome galaxy cat. Her name is Andromeda._

_(*ba-dum-tss*)_

_Seriously, this is like the first time I’ve actually thought of a good name for something. Remember fishy-wishy?_

_Anyways. This particular owl is Sherlock’s._

_OK, so I’m gonna try to make this sound as believable as possible._

_This is not magic, or anything, but Sherlock is like a detective._

_Well I failed. That sounds really sketchy and fake. Sorry, I’ll try again. (By the way_ — _apparently there’s this fancy spell that erases or something but I am rubbish at spells so you just gotta bear with me and my strange rambles here.)_

_Sherlock Holmes is scarily good at reading people, without magic or anything. I can’t think of an example right now, and it’s getting late, and my hand is cramping from constantly dipping this stupid quill in the ink, so please just trust me on this._

_Oh, right!!!! (Sorry for my overuse of !!!s) OK, you know Mycroft, right? Wait no you don’t._

_OK, you know the Ministry of Magic and the letter Lestrade gave you, right? Like the creepy stalker-ish one? I can assure you he’s NOT stalking you, and that he (the entire letter was written by this boss guy Mycroft, who by the way Lestrade has a crush on) is just very good at reading people, and apparently their parents, too. Sound familiar?_

_They’re brothers! Now you know._

_Right, so I’m out of parchment (parchment! Seriously, I don’t care if it’s “tradition” or whatever; it’s still inefficient) and my desk is covered with ink splatters right now (so is this letter… sorry!)_

_Seriously_ — _please send some paper._

_I’m not sure how long this’ll take, but I wrote the date at the top so you’ll know if you receive this letter like months from now. Seriously, this is like the wizard version of Windows._

_OK, well… I’ll see if you get this!_

_Insert fancy word here,_

_John Watson_

\------ 

_September 15, 2016:_

_Hello!_

_So, I asked Mike during “_ _Wizard-and-Muggle-Question-Exchange” (exactly what it sounds like, and I guess Andromeda was just a stroke of luck), and apparently your letters or parcels or whatevers are supposed to arrive/return along with the owl? But there isn’t anything tied to Jackson’s leg? And I know you got the letter, as Jackson The Owl has healthily returned with the twine broken._

_I’m guessing you forgot to tie on the letter. I’ll send Jackson over again. He’ll wait for you to tie another letter on. Or, he’s supposed to. I guess we’ll see._

_Sincerely (why “sincerely”? That’s, like, the weirdest word ever.)_

_John Watson_

\------

_Jackson is being very DIFFICULT. What did you do to him?_

\------

September 18, 2016, 9:36 pm

Text message sent:

_hello? anyone there?_

9:37 pm. Reply from: _mom_

omg sweetie!!! FINALLY!!! 

_um do you just stare at your phone all the time_

what? lol no 

_… ok…_

WHY DIDN’T YOU RESPOND TO MY 43 TEXTS 

_for some reason nothing internetty works at hogwarts. do you have any idea how hard it was to get here? i literally snuck out after curfew and_ ~~_sherlock apparated me_ ~~ _snuck a cab with the few pounds left over_

WHERE ARE U 

_starbucks with free wifi_

oh ok 

_right. so what happened with the letters? why weren’t you responding?_

WHY WEREN’T YOU RESPONDING?!! 

_i already told you. your turn._

_and please turn off your caps locks_

s orry :/ 

we tried to! we even made a hanging up hook-and-string thing! the owl isnt strong enough john next time bring like an eagle 

_mum this isnt america._

ok well bring like the biggest strongest owl youve got! wait no bring like a flock 

_mum first its a parliament of owls, and no im pretty sure im not allowed to do that_

fine my first idea then 

_im pretty sure jackson is one of the strongest owls_

_what are you sending me anyway?_

_…_

_mum?_

just some everyday essentials 

_yeah right obviously. im gonna be fine mum there are like a thousand spells for brushing my teeth_

YOU DIDNT PACK A TOOTHBRUSH? 

_MUM NO_

_seriously im completely well. really. if youre so insistent at least do poor jackson a favour and send it in small bits at a time_

ugh fine 

_thx. gotta go, stores closed and the managers sneaking me dirty looks from inside. he’s also cheating on his wife._

_sry about that. not_ ~~_me_ ~~ _relevant_

_ill send you an empty owl, k?_

uugggghhhhh 

_k im gonna go now_

john i love you sweetie 

_aw thanks mum <3 love ya too _

_ok bye_

_\------_

_September 20, 2016_

_Hello John!_

_When you were four years old you tried to eat your shirt and cried for two hours when we confisticated it._

_Now you know I’m your mother! :)_

_How’s school? Are you doing fine? Did you make new friends? Tell Sherlock/Mike/the ghost/whoever I said hi! And don’t worry too much about your grades at this period of time_ — _after all, you are a new wizard._

_Gosh, I still can’t believe it. My little boy, all grown up and casting magic spells… !_

_When I see you again you must show me some. Maybe you could wash the dishes magically since your father is absolutely adamant on leaving his cereal bowl in the sink until it grows mold._

_L.O.L,_

_Your mother_

_\------_

_Hey John,_

_When you were five you ate an entire bottle of fish food because you wanted to become “fish boy” and swim in the deep end._

_Now you know it’s your father. :)_

_How are you?_

_Is there anything especially “cool” that you want to share? Is the food there alright?_

_Geez, your mother said everything I was going to say. Pretend I asked a bunch of questions._

_Maybe you could magically do your mother’s hair too. That would take at least two hours faster._

_Lots Of Love (I kept quiet and so should you),_

_Your father_

_P.S. Enjoy the package._

_\------_

_September 22, 2016_

_WHAT THE HECK GUYS DONT SEND ME WEIRD STUFF_

_Seriously though. Why the hell would I need FOUR containers of floss? A stale, slightly-gone-moldy, gross cheese sandwich? A THERMOS with DISGUSTINGLY FREEZING SOUP? Thermoses aren’t magic, mum (UNLIKE ME); they’re not gonna protect anything from freezing temperatures for days._

_I’m not even gonna talk about my baby pictures. Nope. (All the ugly ones, too? Jeez!)_

_Items I have magically set on fire:_

  * Three containers of floss
  * THAT baby picture
  * The sandwich
  * The entire lunch box
  * Glittery pink diary (mum. Stop it.)
  * Four out of five deodorants
  * ALL the Axe (no. Just no.)
  * Huge oversized starry glittery wizard hat



_Etc. Seriously, though. No paper? No pen? If this is your first batch of parcels, I’m beginning to question your priorities._

_Please don’t send me any more weird useless stuff. I’m pretty sure I’ve betrayed Jackson’s trust. From now on, I’m sending Jackson over once a week. Please consider your priorities better._

_Weirded out and a bit afraid,_

_John Watson_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These chapters are all "filler-ish" chapters. I have the faintest plot line EVER and don't know what to write until the holidays.  
> Please don't give up on me though, I promise I will eventually have a plot!  
> 


	12. These Knuts

The moment John walked into the classroom, he was immediately battered with questions. He winced as students stood up at the sight of his entry, waving sheets of parchment with hundreds of shaky lines drawn on ( _lined paper. Wow.)_ quills with the feather ripped off, and every loophole  you could think of, shooting questions at him like paintballs on his birthday.

Jeez. This was like his first day all over again.

“Okay, okay,” he said in a panic, holding up his palms dramatically. “Calm down, kids.”

He took his position in the front of the class (the professor had somehow approved of John’s teaching methods, and was now happily seated in John’s chair. Sherlock looked furious.)

“First of all,” he started, “finished works go here.” He pointed to a blank spot on the desk, and shook his head slightly as he watched all the students who had completed the homework (not many actually; John suspected the ones who did were all muggleborns) simply float their papers over with a twirl of their wands. Magic sure did make people lazy.

John gathered up the papers with a secret grin. Gods, was reading them going to be fun…

“But for now,” he said, “I shall take questions. And I assume there are many.”

Hands shot up in the air, students furiously wiggling their fingers, stories to tell and questions to ask.

“You just gave Mycroft a ton of extra problems,” said Sherlock.

John soon realised that 1. Sherlock was right, and 2. this would be more difficult than he thought.

Dozens of wizards roaming Staples, wondering what the hell were mechanical pencils and fountain pens and where’s the inkwell for my pencil and _why would I need eight different types of paper?!_ and finally (probably after a secret accio) the said paper and pencil was found, then stopping dead in their tracks at the cashier as they looked at pounds and pence and whatnot, pulling out from their pockets shining gold and silver and bronze.

“I asked the cashier if I could pay with these knuts and she threatened to call security.”

John made a _pffft_ noise, pressed his lips together, burst out a “HA!” and then started laughing uncontrollably in bouts of hysteria, and when he finally got ahold of himself he looked at the student’s confused gaze, imagined the scenario again, and it would start all over.

“Oh ho,” he finally gasped out, “that’s unfortunate.”

“Right,” John added, “our next unit is decidedly memes.”

-+-+-+-

_This is a projector. A projector, as you can see, is a large rectangular object. This projector is a special off-white colour, and it has a round lens on the front. This projector is a special object that plays an important role in Muggle society. This projector has the ability to, as said, project images and pictures onto a wall. This projector…_

John shook his head and laughed. _“This,”_ he said, “is terrible.”

And it was one of the good ones. He’ll admit, the assignment itself, John didn’t care about. He was just trying to get them to use pencil and paper, to get them thinking: _hey, this is so much easier!_

Though it seemed like he had accomplished the opposite. It was obvious none of the student (who weren’t muggleborns) had not the faintest idea how a pencil and paper worked. Some people seemed to have tried writing on the paper without sharpening their pencil, instead just pressing really hard with the blunt tip, resulting in a completely unlegible piece of writing. Some gave up and wrote on the lined paper with their quills, which just made the entire work smeared and spattered. As John noticed earlier, some wizards attempted to draw dozens of lines on the parchment itself, as “lined paper”. And some didn’t even hand anything in.

John sighed. This was going to harder than he thought.

-+-+-+-

On his next free period, John didn’t do any of his homework, nor read any of the Muggle Studies’.

Instead, he made his way over to the hospital.

“Er, I’m here to see, I mean, check on, Molly Hooper?” John stammered at the stern, slightly-scary-looking nurse.

“Molly! Yes, of course,” the nurse chirped out with a bright smile, with helped balance out the scary-looking-ness of her a bit. “Follow me.”

John walked alongside her as she expertly walked towards the end of the beds.

“What kind of injuries do you even get around here?” He blurted out.

“Oh, just the usual,” she said absentmindedly, strolling down the halls, looking at the patients with a scowl or a “stop moving it, you’ll make it worse!”, casting an occasional spell to retie bandages or the sort. “Broken bones, potion burns and boils, Quidditch injuries, magical creature attacks, et cetera. Usually magic fixes it, but some people need the extra rest.” The nurse winked. “Though the majority of them just don’t want to get back to class.”

John smiled weakly as he watched a kid with a massive tongue lolling out of his mouth happily slobber all over the pillows as he attempted to speak.

“Stop that, Chad,” the nurse scolded gently. “For example, I could usually heal something like this pretty fast, but this hex was a tad too strong. I have to do it a little at a time. Although it does help that he absolutely despises Potions, which there’s a test tomorrow.”

John gave Chad an amused look and a thumbs up. Chad grinned the best he could, and gave one back. They walked the rest of the path in silence while John looked around some more.

They quickly reached their destination. “Molly, dear,” the nurse called out as they walked towards her bed. “Someone’s here to see you!”

“Who?” Molly sat, propping herself up with an arm, with bright, hopeful eyes.

John couldn’t help but notice them dim slightly upon seeing him, but she quickly put on a smile (which was still not entirely fake.) “Hello, John!” Molly said happily. “Lovely to see you.”

“You too,” John said with a small smile. “I thought I’d check on you. How are you doing?”

“Um, pretty good, I guess,” responded the girl with a shrug. “We had Care of Magical Creatures today. I wanted to go but Donovan said I needed some more time to rest.” Molly smiled at the nurse, who shook her head.

“Well, damn right you do.” Donovan smiled at the other, and then gave her a nod. “I’m going to go check on the other patients. Just shout if you need me.”

“Gotcha, Don,” Molly said happily.

“So, uh…” John fidgeted his feet, wanting to sit down but thinking that, with his clumsiness, he might accidentally sit on Molly’s feet, “Sherlock found out what happened.”

John explained to Molly the best he could, and by the end of it, she seemed to have the majority of her memories back.

“Irene Adler,” she mumbled. “She was trying to drug Sherlock. I should’ve… I tried to stop her.”

“I know,” John said quietly.

“It’s not even fair,” Molly muttered. “Even if she succeeded, what I really hate is how… manipulative she is. She didn’t even want Sherlock himself, just information. She was just using him for a selfish cause.”

John looked at Molly and felt his gut twist slightly. He offered her a weak smile. “Anyways, I think Sherlock’s coming to visit you sometime later.”

“Oh, OK,” Molly said, a bit too fast. “That’s nice.”

John realised what Sherlock meant now, and felt a pang of sympathy for Molly Hooper.

He decided to stay a bit longer.

-+-+-+-

John walked into the greenhouse, said a greeting to the professor (who had begun openly dating the Astronomy teacher) and sat down at his usual seat. It was only then that his eyes caught it.

From what he found out about magic thus far, John was used to strange looking objects by now, and so he looked at it quietly, studying it carefully.

It seemed like a mass of tentacles and vines, sitting on a large area of dirt. John was reminded of Medusa’s snake hair.

“What’s that?” he asked Mike, who was sitting beside him.

“Devil’s Snare,” Mike replied easily. “I’m sure we’ll get a recap from the professor.”

John nodded, and resumed his look-over, until the professor began to speak.

“As you will be taking your O.W.L’s soon, we will start going over the requirements and review. Today we will be looking at the Devil’s Snare, and the fire making charm to protect yourselves from it.”

John sighed and rested his head on his arm. Not charms again.

“The Devil’s Snare has the ability to wrap themselves around you, eventually choking you, possibly to death.” As the professor spoke, she stepped onto the tendrils, which immediately began coiling around her legs. “If such a thing happens to you, the first thing you should do is _relax.”_

She closed her eyes. Her shoulders loosened, and, as it happened, so did the Devil’s Snare.

“The next step is to cast a fire charm. It will recoil from fire, and you will be freed.”

Drawing out her wand, the professor pointed it at the vines around her legs. _“Incendio,”_ she said softly, and a jet of orange fire flew from her wand. John flinched, and then watched as they landed on the vines, which recoiled rapidly, moved away from the professor, and did a fancy roll-over to extinguish the flames.

“The Devil’s Snare now has learned a way of stopping the fire,” the professor spoke with a tinge of pride, “and therefore keeping its life.”

“Now,” she continued, “you will review the fire spell by casting it on a small pile of leaves. Anyone who fails to do so, or fools around, will be deducted points. You may begin.”

“Shoot,” John muttered as everyone stood up and gathered some leaves. He drew his wand from his robe and looked at it with exasperation. “Please work,” he pleaded to the cedar wood, and pointed it at a single, shrivelled leaf.

 _“Incendio,”_ John said forcefully, though quiet.

The leaf glowed slightly, and he swore there was a spark, but no flames.

He tried again. Nope.

And again and again and again. Nada.

He made a noise in his throat and sighed. Looks like more extra practise.

-+-+-+-

“Oh, right,” John added, as they strolled towards their extra practise room. He coughed. “You should go check on Molly some time.”

Slowing down slightly, Sherlock gave John a puzzled look. “Why?”

“Um… because she was burned by an ashwinder egg and then shoved into a fire-seed bush?”

“Oh, that case,” Sherlock said with realisation. “That was ages ago.”

“That… was literally three days ago.”

“Exactly.”

John rolled his eyes as they entered the room (which had gone from abandoned and empty to full of junk). “Okay, whatever. Still,” he prompted, “you should give Molly a visit. She…” John dwindled off as Sherlock turned and stared John down.

“John,” he said quietly. “Molly likes me, but I _don’t._ Don’t force love? Isn’t that what you said to Charles?”

“I, yes, but—”

 _“I don’t like Molly Hooper,”_ Sherlock pressed.

“But,” John mumbled.

“But what, John? I should still go see her? To get her hopes up? John, I don’t check on people, not even when they’re in the same condition as Molly. She knows it. She won’t be offended.”

“But she’s heartbroken,” John hissed.

“She’ll be even more broken if I did what you’re telling me to!” Sherlock was about to say something else, but it caught in his throat—he sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes closed and lips pressed together.

John looked at Sherlock and bit his lip. “Dammit.”

“Sorry,” John mumbled. “I…”

Sherlock opened his eyes and gave him a small smile. “It’s fine. Let’s just forget it.”

“I—alright.”

They walked to the centre of the room, and John took out his wand, tore the title page out of his charms book, crumpled it up, threw it on the floor, and said the spell.

“You’re not saying it right,” Sherlock said. “It’s in- _cen-_ dio.”

“That’s what I’m saying,” John complained moodily, and tried again.

“You’re holding your wand too tight.”

“Of course I am.”

“You’re waving your wand much too choppily.”

“That’s because you’re supposed to!”

“No, John, you’re not.”

John made a loud, drawn-out noise of utter frustration.

Sherlock sighed. “Do it again.”  
Trying not to hold his wand too tight and trying to keep his motion fluid and smooth and not to stutter or mumble or shout or say it wrong, John glared at the crumpled ball and tried again.

“Oh, would ya look at that,” he said softly. The paper ball was now lit up, blackening and crackling.

Sherlock smirked. “I’m beginning to think you’re just pretending you can’t do it.”

“No, I… I’m not sure what,” John began, but shortly gave up and gave Sherlock a small swat on his fringe. “Nevermind. My turn.”

Sherlock’s face morphed from teasing to shock to annoyance. “Nah, I’m good.”

Now it was John’s turn to smirk. “I really should repay the favour, though.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Nope.

 _“Yes,”_ John insisted, way too cheerful.

Sherlock scowled. “No broom-on-a-string rubbish.”

“It’s a perfectly efficient method!” John said, but even he couldn’t keep from giggling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for this chapter title. Inspiration from a HP tumblr post, by the way.


	13. Clubbing

“Alright, class,” John said to the students, who now seemed a combination of annoyance, curiosity, and condescending. “So last assignment was a failure.”

John rolled his eyes through the sniggers. “I’m a student teacher, okay? My first assignment, I didn’t think it through enough. Obviously. Bear with me here. I’m learning. Oh, and to Sara,” John said, remembering the angry letter with the assignments, “I’m sorry I ruined your Hogsmeade weekend by getting you lost.” He scanned the desks, and found an exasperated girl, who shook her head. “Anyways, those papers won’t count, seeing as half of you didn’t hand anything in.

“Anyways. We’re starting another unit today.”

Sara raised her hand before John could continue. “Will we continue watching the, uh, tv show?”

“Oh, right!” John pursed his lips, hummed, and then smiled at the crowd. “Who wishes to continue the show we were watching?”

The majority shot up their hands. John’s smile widened. “Great! In that case, we’ll take this period to watch episode two.”

“Hey, hold on.”

All heads turned towards the figure seated beside a moody Sherlock. 

“Er, hello Professor,” John muttered.

“I shall not permit this Advanced Muggle Studies class to watch ‘tv shows’,”—she scoffed—“all afternoon. And your ‘memes’ do not, I suppose, teach anything about electricity?”

“No, professor. But electricity does not, I suppose, teach anything about muggle entertainment?”

A faint “oooh” was heard from the crowd as the professor’s face flushed slightly.

She scowled. “My mind had been made up since yesterday, and you have only given me more certainty. This cannot proceed. I think I should nip it at the bud.”

“Mr. Watson,” the professor said sharply, as John made an indignant noise, gut dropping, “you will listen to me. I enjoy your new style of Muggle Studies, and it seems as if the students do, too. However it barely, if at all, fits the curriculum. Perhaps I shall allow you to teach once more once in awhile, but if this continues nothing will get done.”

“That is all,” she said crisply, standing up from her—John’s—desk. “You may return to your seat. I will resume my teaching.”

-+-+-+-

Sherlock watched silently as John stomped on the rotting leaves.

“What does she know? Muggles have more wizards should know about them than—than, electricity!” John fumed, wringing his wrists. “I was going to show them that! I was going to…” He dropped his hands, and looked at Sherlock, helplessly. “I wanted to show them there was more to muggles than telephones and trains. To get them thinking,  _ hey this is actually really fun and smart and great!”  _ he said sardonically, waving his arms in the air. “Some wizards think muggles are the lower class! They call them mudbloods! Do you know what they say?”

“Do you even care?” 

Sherlock pressed his lips together and took a couple of steps, back and forth. “Yes, John, I care greatly,” he murmured.

“Then  _ why _ —” John abruptly shut up. The memory sprang into his mind and Charles’ words rang in his ears.

“Oh—your parents—” John choked out.  _ Dammit! _

It was Sherlock who spoke first. “Now, John. Our professor had just broken up with her new boyfriend.” 

“Next—if you want to get a message across, do it yourself. You don’t have to rely on others to give you the opportunity. The students love your teaching method; the truly passionate ones would be overjoyed to have a chance outside of class time.”

“Go on,” John murmured, his original idea evolving into another.

“And I know a place.”

Sherlock’s smile turned genuine, and John’s eyes widened. “Oh, definitely. This is gonna be great.”

-+-+-+-

Sherlock walked in front of the entrance a couple of times, and a door appeared. John entered. 

What he saw wasn’t at all what he expected.

“Wh… what the hell?” John breathed out, looking around, slowly raising his hands to his head. 

A huge, cozy room with a blazing fireplace, the crackling and subtle roar filling the air. A huge bookshelf standing on a wall; books, hundreds of books, lining the shelves. And they weren’t spellbooks.

“How. How did you get these?!” John shouted, voice trembling as he ran his fingers along the spines, familiar titles and well-known novels. “I, I can’t even…” 

He turned back around.

Recliners and sofas, facing a blank wall. A projector. A video game console. A… a tv?

And more. So much more, that John couldn’t even stand seeing them all. He felt that he might have a heart attack.

With a noise that couldn’t be described, John finally landed his eyes on the only other person in the room. “What the hell is this?!” he marveled. 

Sherlock looked quite pleased. “The Room of Requirement.” He gave John a crooked smile. “Guess I can’t keep it a secret anymore.”

Sherlock held up a palm to a very confused John. 

“Specially equipped to the seeker’s needs. Simply imagine what you want, and it shall appear.”

“But… hold on.” John held up a hand. 

He then looked at Sherlock’s held-up hand, furrowed his brow, grinned, and gave Sherlock a high-five.

“Okay, so, anyways,” articulated John pointedly. 

“But I know this place.”

“Oh, so you think you do,” said Sherlock mischievously.

“Yes, I do,” insisted John. 

He forced himself not to look away from Sherlock’s impish gaze. 

“What happened to our secret practising room?”

Sherlock grinned, eyes twinkling in that strange way, with an expression that said,  _ finally! _

“I already told you,” he sang. 

“Well, tell me again!” burst John.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Oh, alright. I’ll simple it down for you. The Room of Requirement is, well, anything. You just need to think of it.”

“…  _ What?!” _

“Yep!” chirped Sherlock. “I can think of our cozy little practise room, and… there it is.”

John blinked hard, and gaped again. 

The walls shrunk, the objects disappeared, others poofed into view, and soon, it was their familiar practise room.

“Oh, come on,” chided Sherlock. “Why did you think I paced back and forth before entering?”

“I… thought it was just your… thing?” John said, immensely confused.

“Why did you think everything we needed would be there the next day?”

“… Janitors?”

“Merlin.” Sherlock shook his head, and snickered. “You’re not very observant, aren’t you?”

John scowled and blushed. “Shut up. You were trying to keep it a secret.”

Sherlock grinned.

John smiled and flicked Sherlock’s hair. “Okay, but how did you know to get all this?” He gestured to the towers of books, the chairs, the projector, the tv. “I mean, even I can’t think of all this!” he raved.

“Well, obviously,” Sherlock said, and John frowned. 

“I do my research,” he finally said, the same infuriatingly vague explanation that made John want to choke him. 

“Hmm,” John said, unsatisfied. 

Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, though, so John shrugged and gave Sherlock a warm smile. “You do your research well, Sherlock. Thank you.”

Surprisingly enough, Sherlock didn’t give the snide remark, or a usual offensive comment; he blinked, shrugged, and offered John a small smile back.

And so John waited, impatiently, for the next Muggle Studies. 

But as the day finally came, he walked into the classroom with hands shoved into his pockets, his head lowered. He licked his dry lips repeatedly before taking a deep breath and looking up at the already-present wizards and professor. He opened his mouth.

And then the little nagging thought came again… that annoying, infuriating, persistent voice everyone has. John blinked hard, couldn’t help but listen, and closed his mouth again, his heart sinking. Scenarios played in his mind, flickering from bewildered, surprised, happy… to taunting, incredulous scoffs, firing at him repeatedly. Oh no. Maybe he should just let this pass as another one of his spur-of-the-moment ideas that he never actually does.

Out of the corner of his eye, John caught Sherlock’s eyes. 

He sucked in a sharp breath, looked away immediately, and put on a very faint smile.  _ Okay, nevermind. I can do this. _

“Professor, I know I’m not teaching anymore,” John said quickly, raising his hands up high. “But can I please please please make a really really really quick announcement to the students? Please?” He offered her his sweetest smile.

The Muggle Studies professor sucked in her cheeks, but looked at John’s (beautiful and angelic) smile and huffed. “Last ‘announcement’, Mr. Watson.”

“Yes, ma'am!” John chirped, and turned to the confused wizards with a shaky smile. “Hey, so if any of you want to continue to watch that series, er, tv show, meet me outside the classroom after this, okay? Um, I’m done now professor you can teach now,” John babbled, and hurried over to his seat, cursing himself for his awkwardness (he had planned this speech out, dammit! But, like always, his mind had gone blank.)

Sherlock gave John a raised eyebrow, and John pouted. “I tried my best,” he with a shrug.

“And now we will continue with our study with electricity,” the professor said pointedly. John pouted again, gave all the students a glance, and then proceeded to zone out and let his pessimist side run wild for the rest of the lesson.

John stumbled out of the classroom immediately after the professor’s dismissal, almost dropping his books along the way, and practically fell onto the wall beside the classroom door. He bit at the skin on his lips, tearing away little pieces, until his mouth stung and he tasted copper. 

A student exited the classroom. She looked around, caught John dabbing his lip with a thumb, and smiled, making her way towards him. 

“Hi,” she said brightly. “You said to meet us here?”

“Oh, er, yeah. See, there’s like this cool room, and it—”

“Hold on a second,” the girl interrupted, “There are a couple more students.”

“Oh, okay, that’s great,” John stammered, thinking how not great this was.

“Just a couple… oi, right here!” she said loudly, waving at some wizards exiting the door. “You guys wanted to continue watching that show thing, didn’t you?”

John backed up towards the wall more and tried not to let his nervousness show as, slowly, a crowd formed. Not much, mind you—just a dozen or so. (Which, in John’s opinion, was more than okay, because this scenario, and the future of this idea, suddenly seemed much more unrealistic than he first predicted. Not to mention, all the problems he avoided before, he now had to work out.) 

John twiddled his fingers and cursed. He didn’t think this through enough.

-+-+-+-

“This is not a speech. I am not a good speaker. In fact, I am probably the most rubbish and awkward speaker, or person in general, you will ever hear and meet, and I will probably fall off this chair halfway through. But that doesn’t matter, because you are not here to listen to me. You are here to watch a tv show. However, before I press play on this little machinery thing here, called a remote control, to play the show on this tv—not a projector, a tv, hey, maybe you should write a paper on tv’s too, no, no, no, please don’t leave, I’m joking, this isn’t a class. This is… a club, I guess. Anyways. Before we watch this show, I would like to say a few words. 

“Jeez, this is too much like a speech. I’m sorry. This isn’t a speech. I mean, I might have planned it out in my head about a hundred times now, and recited it in the mirror once, and to my friends once, I mean like eighteen times, too, but I’m terrible at this and all my past planning is flying out of my brain here, so please don’t give this the same expectations you would with a speech. Thanks. Please don’t leave, I’m almost done here. Thank you. Okay.

“I know most of you are just here because the show was so good and you want to see what happens next. I can assume some of you are just here because the main character is completely gorgeous. I agree to both, but look—there are so many more things in this room. See these books? And those video games? They’re just as cool as this show. And they’re all made by muggles. No magic.

“This is my first year learning magic, but I was doing just fine before. Muggles have just as much priority, fun, intelligence and whatnot, than wizards, maybe more. I’m not just doing this to ogle at the main character’s eyes. I want you guys to know that muggles are actually brilliant. Whoever thinks they’re below us can go to hell.”

“Hmm. Do you guys know that saying? No? Uh… whoever makes fun of muggleborns and muggles can, uh, have someone cast on them all three of the Unforgivable Curses. Wizarded that down for ya.”

“Gods, that was a terrible talk. I mean, er, Merlin, this is so cliche. 

“Oh God—um, I mean… 

“Nevermind. I’ll just start the tv show and you can watch it. Sorry there’s no food, by the way—apparently this magic room can’t create food, which sucks, but I guess it can make anything else you want basically appear out of thin air, so I guess that compensates for it. Bring your own food next time. 

“Will there be a next time? I don’t know. Don’t ask me. I’m just word-vomiting here. I didn’t plan this out nearly as much as I should have. I mean, seriously! So, we’ll just figure something out.”

“Sorry, I’ll start it now. Enjoy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah... John is literally me right now. I just wrote this and didn't stop. Please point out any plot holes/incorrect HP world things if you spot them.  
> 


	14. Viva la Veela

John had steadily improved in magic, thanks to the extra practise in what John now knew as the Room of Requirement, and he was now raised to fifth year in Transfiguration. At this moment, he sat happily in his desk, bouncing his leg (despite all the efforts from his parents to stop it) and tapping his fingers.

“As you certainly have noticed, there is much review starting in preparation of your O.W.L.’s, and this will not be different. But, for the sake of review”—John chewed on his lip, not sure whether or not the professor was doing this for his sake, or everyone’s—“We’ll begin with an easy one. I’ll partner you up and hand each pair a teacup. You will then take turns transfiguring—nothing inappropriate, please, unless you want it confisticated. You may begin as soon as I pair you up.” 

The professor walked along the desks, picking partners “the lazy way”—partnering by students’ proximity to each other, occasionally switching things up by pairing vertically instead of side-to-side.

“You will be with Miss. Adler today,” she said, placing a teacup on his desk, and nodding to behind him.

John blinked, panicked for a moment, but then nodded, pretending he couldn’t see the other guys’ burning eyes. He held his wand, trying to put on a calm face, as the professor continued down the rows.

John began turning his chair around to face what was originally his back, but as a huge screech emitted—you would’ve thought there would at least be some tennis balls, right?—he stopped, swivelled his body around instead, and gave Irene Adler a tentative smile. “Hello, I’m John.”

“I know,” Irene replied, and John paused and tried to decipher her tone, as Irene raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, and when he found that he couldn’t, John mouthed a soundless  _ okay  _ and drummed his fingers on his leg. 

John was… scared. He’s heard so much of the Slytherin, “The Woman”, before, and something about her just made him even more nervous—John averted his eyes, because he had known this before, but up close? Irene Adler was just too hard to look at. Which was ironic.

It was something alluring. She was pretty, yes—gorgeous. But it was something more, John didn’t know if it was the look in her eyes or the way she seemed to be amused by everything John was doing (frankly not much) but he couldn’t quite put a finger on it. 

Teenage hormones?

John sniggered, shook that thought away—no, not that, although it was the culprit for many. Irene Adler had something else, he was sure of it. John’ll have to remember to ask Sherlock later.

“Ladies first?” John suggested, still trying not to look the other in the eye. 

“Of course,” she said smoothly, and John flinched slightly, because her voice was so soft, a purr, a coo, something like that, John thought faintly, he couldn’t decipher it.

Irene flicked her wand at the teacup sitting on John’s desk. The teacup slowly shifted, handle unfurling and sprouting hairs, shape morphing, until it became a scuttling rat.

John caught the professor looking at him for his move and cursed in his head. “Okay, my turn, I guess,” he muttered, reluctantly lifting his wand. Let’s see if it can turn back into a teacup.

He tried, he really did—remembering the mathematical formula that apparently first-years knew better than him, trying not to fiddle his wand too much (which, frankly, was quite impossible) and everything else he knew. 

“Please?” he mumbled at his wand, and at the small mouse, which was now on its hind legs, head tilted, whiskers twitching, peering up with beady eyes at the tip of John’s wand. “Turn back for me?”

The rat squeaked and bit John’s wand.  _ No, you rubbish wizard.  _ Irene smirked and looked away. 

“I’ve got it,” John protested, concentration focused on the teacup, “it just takes a while.”

He flexed his fingers and adjusted his grip, pointed it again. The mouse looked at his slowly curling and hardening tail—the handle—in horror.  _ Ah-ha! _

“See?”

He continued on, and, slowly but surely, the mouse transfigured.

“A bit more… and… there!” He proudly held it up. “Gotcha.”

Irene hummed. “Let’s see that,” she said, and took the teacup from John. She studied it carefully, with pursed red lips, and then tilted her head. “It’s  _ talking.” _

“Hmm?” 

John took the teacup back, and put his ears near the cup. “Uh. I guess it is?” He grinned as tiny squeaks came out from the cup. John opened his mouth, Disney reference popping into his mind, but stopped himself at the last moment.

He placed the teacup back on his desk and sighed at it, wondering if he could bargain Irene into changing it completely for him, but deciding the negatives overrode the pros.

“And how are you two doing?” the professor cut in as she neared their desks. She scrutinised John with a smile. “You seemed to be washing your ear in the teacup, Mr. Watson.”

John smiled back. “Yes, professor, although in my defense, the teacup seemed to be talking.”

“What? Oh, yes, of course,” said the professor with an eye roll. Her expression then turned serious. “Mr. Watson, if you wish to take your O.W.L.’s this year, you must improve. I know you’ve been practising, but might you consider another year before the exams?”

“No, professor,” John replied steadily back, a hint of coldness in his tone. “I don’t need to fall further back. I will improve, I assure you that.”

“Well, if you say so,” the professor said, slightly taken aback. “Your Gryffindor is certainly showing. Here, tell you what: take five points.” The professor smiled, patted John on the shoulder, and continued on.

John blinked, and smiled, a bit relieved, and a bit confused, though not entirely unsatisfied. “That worked.”

“I’d say it was a bit Slytherin,” commented Irene.

“Maybe,” hummed John. He then picked up the teacup again. “Hey, do you think if I broke the teacup, the mouse would die?”

“That’s completely _ not _ how it works.”

“Yes, but what about in a state like this?” countered John, holding up the squeaking teacup. He pretended to aim it at the floor.

“Definitely Slytherin,” Irene quipped.

-+-+-+-

“I thought you knew.”

John elbowed Sherlock. “Sod off. You knew I didn’t, you just wanted to make me really confused and wondering if my hormones really were that strong.”

Sherlock giggled, and John sighed. “So what, Irene’s like… half-Veela?”

Sherlock nodded. “There’s a reason everyone’s dated her before.”

John hummed, and watched his feet fall in sync with Sherlock’s. 

He held his breath and turned a corner. Sherlock turned, too, automatically and without thinking, and John let it out. 

It was working.

“You’re a lot like her,” he said suddenly. “Actually, I think during the end I pretty much envisioned her as you.”

“I am _ not _ like Irene Adler,” Sherlock responded, face turning serious. “I’m not _ half  _ as bad as her.”

“But you two are similar,” John protested, “like how you both have the… weird eyes,” John cringed and shuddered. “I’m so sorry. That was terrible.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Sherlock said lightly, purposely looking into John’s eyes now, “Everyone says that.”

“Okay, well, you both look at me like I’m _ stupid,” _ John continued, averting his eyes from Sherlock’s. Sherlock grinned.

“That’s because you are.”

“Shut up,” John said with another elbow. He turned again. Sherlock turned, too. Phew.

“And you’ve both manipulated each other,” he finished with a smile, though it quickly faded at Sherlock’s face.

“That’s a last resort, when I’m desperate. Adler manipulates constantly. I will never manipulate as an immediate solution.” His tone was cold, but it also sounded like there was something else. Hurt. 

“Sorry,” John said quickly. He coughed. “I believe you.”

_ “Good,”  _ Sherlock emphasised, and then smiled a little. 

“You forgot a turn.”

John’s breath hitched. He rewound his memory with his directions, and then he groaned. Duped at his own game. Ah, he thought he was so clever, unconsciously leading Sherlock step by step. “Seriously?”

“I’ve used this trick too many times. I bet you learned it from me.”

Scowling, John punched Sherlock’s arm. “Screw you,” he said childishly.

Sherlock smiled. “I assume we were going to visit Molly Hooper, and in that case, you’re actually going in the wrong direction. There’s no doubt she’s gone from the hospital wing by now.”

“So… I should’ve tricked you into following me into the forest.”

Sherlock tutted and began to walk slightly in front of John. John followed automatically, realised what he was doing, cursed himself again, but followed nevertheless. “My dear Watson, I expect better from you. A Hufflepuff, just back from the hospital, after being pushed into a fire in the forest, visiting the forest immediately after she has healed enough to walk?”

“Okay, fine,” John said impatiently, “but where is she then?”

“Right here,” said Sherlock, and stopped in front of the library. “You haven’t forgot about our Potions test, have you?”

John coughed. “Of course not.”

And, true to Sherlock’s word, there sat Molly Hooper, earnestly reading through a yellow-paged textbook, quill in one hand, scribbling notes, murmuring words under her breath.

“Hello, Molly,” John said brightly, walking up the the table. Molly looked up—her eyes caught John, and she smiled, then they focused on behind him, and the smile became stiff.

“Hello,” she squeaked.

“Hello,” Sherlock said, painfully polite. 

John looked at Sherlock and nodded slightly, raising his eyebrows with a “go on” look. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes at John, then looked back to Molly. “Would you like to study together as friends?”

John winced. Molly smiled, gently, eyes hiding the hurt she feels despite her understanding earlier. “I would love that,” she said softly.

Sherlock pulled a chair from another table and sat down. He nodded at John and raised his eyebrows mockingly with a “told you” look. John frowned, but did so nonetheless.

The tension was palpable. John held back a groan. This didn’t work at all.

“Molly,” Sherlock said suddenly. “Why don’t you start by teaching us how to make a love potion?”

“Sherlock!” John said loudly, causing a “shh!” from the librarian.

Molly looked at Sherlock with wide eyes, only to find him with a small smile. 

_ “Sherlock Holmes,” _ John muttered, shaking his head, “that is  _ not  _ how you make a joke.”

Sherlock smirked. “Like your jokes are any better?”

“Hey, my jokes are  _ awesome,”  _ John protested.

“Really? Like Olli-wand-er?”

John’s face flushed. Molly giggled and looked away.

“But actually,” Sherlock said abruptly. “Steps to making a love potion is on the test.”

“I know,” Molly said, and recited the steps, smiling, a smile that was just a bit less nervous than usual.

-+-+-+-

John brushed his teeth and changed into his pyjamas, ignoring Mike’s voice in his head, the voice saying he could just Transfigure, because honestly, he would rather take a couple extra minutes to change than endure any more of his pathetic attempts at magic.

He double-checked his phone alarm (because pm instead of am happened way more than John expected) and placed it on the side of his pillow. Mike was, thankfully, much more used to this now, and finally stopped pressing snooze instead of turning it completely off—he had even stopped using whatever fancy-latin-or-something spell that apparently all wizards used, relying on John’s phone alarm instead.

Feeling envy surging up inside him again, John cast another glance at the other, who was happily sleeping in the bottom bunk, eyes closed and mouth half-open, not stirring at all, undeterred by the light given off by the scented candle John smuggled from the Great Hall, nor John’s loud footsteps (unlike his father’s), nor John’s quiet holiday music humming. How Mike was such a heavy sleeper, John couldn’t fathom.

Sighing, John rubbed his eyes and climbed into bed. He was tired at that moment, no doubt, but he also had no doubt in the fact that, the moment his head hit the pillow, he would suddenly be overwhelmed with so many thoughts, worries, scenarios and memories, that by the time he finally shut them all up it would be incredibly late.

And he was right!

John smushed his face into the pillow and groaned. He turned over on his back, took a deep breath, and did what he always did.

Talk to himself.

_ Hello there, John, what seems to be the problem? _

_ Why hello there, John, it seems that I can’t sleep again. _

_ Why? What’s bothering you? _

_ Well, you see, it’s all quite overwhelming, even though it’s already been…  _

_ oh my god. _

_ What is it? _

_ Three months. That’s like a third of the school year!  _

_ So? _

_ I can’t believe it. Soon it’ll be the holiday break! I’m going to visit my parents _ — _ can’t wait to show them magic and knock their socks off. I could tell them about the club I started! I still can’t believe it. I’m scared everyone’ll leave it after the tv show ends. _

_ You’ll be fine. Just give them Mario Kart and they’ll be addicted. _

_ Yeah. I might make Sherlock write them a letter, too _ — _ convince then I’m not lying when I say he’s creepily good at detective stuff. Hey, do you think him and Molly are friends now? _

_ Eh… tough. Not sure yet. _

_ There’s way too much stuff going on. _

And so, John thought. He thought to himself for what he imagined must’ve been hours (although in reality it was only about thirty minutes) until his body took control of his mind, and, without him knowing so, he drifted slowly into a well needed night’s sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Late chapter. Sorry!  
> 


	15. Breaktime

John shifted his sore feet, transferring his weight from one foot to another.

“Can’t we just apparate?” he suggested suddenly to a nearby student, trudging along the path.

The wizard blew out a steamed breath. “Yeah, sure! Go ahead.” He scoffed and shook his head, and although John kept his eyes on the road, he was pretty sure the other was rolling his eyes.

“Uh huh. Right. Sorry,” John said, reprimanding himself.  _ And you said you were gonna change.  _

Sherlock was nowhere to be seen, and it wasn’t much of a surprise. John didn’t want to nose around or probe any further, so he didn’t know much, save Charles’ little spat and inferring from Sherlock’s incredible vagueness. He was probably staying at Hogwarts, doing whatever mystery or crime he usually did.

He looked around at the bustling crowd of students all around him, and shook his head at the thought that only a few of them had their phones out. He supposed it was a good thing, after all. 

Oh well. Nevertheless, John drew out his phone from his wizard robe pocket (where he also kept his wand) and reluctantly pulled off his mittens, shoving them into his pocket where the phone once was.

His parents had (finally!) relented and given John a personal hotspot, after John’s promise to contribute to the fee. 

_ Walking to station. Be at king’s cross around four.  _

After a couple seconds of staring at his text, John came to the conclusion that his parents were probably not going to respond immediately, and he turned off his phone and replaced it with his mittens.

John caught a figure in front of him, and, after squinting for a moment, hurried to catch up.

“Hey, Molly.”

Molly smiled. “Hi, John.” She stepped to the side and into the snow, as John jogged to catch up.

They trudged the path together, small talk coming up once in a while, the other wizards’ chatter dissolving the occasional quiet awkwardness that would usually be inevitable. Eventually, Molly spotted another person to their front, and with a wave and a farewell disappeared to the front somewhere.

Something in his robe vibrated, and John quickly yanked off his mittens.

OK DEAR WE WILL BE THERE FROM THREE

John smiled at the text, typed a quick response of acknowledgement, put it back into his pocket and resumed his daydreaming.

At some point or another, Andromeda appeared beside him, rubbing on his leg, then disappearing elsewhere. John didn’t mind —she always turned up one way or another.

“Think we could go ice-skating?” he suggested, jokingly, to Sara, whom he recognised to be in his Muggle Studies’ class. He tilted his head to the lake. “Wizards do ice skate, right?”

“Mm hmm,” Sara responded, “but sometimes the Giant Squid breaks the ice and grabs you to save you from a fall. Then the Merpeople come out.” She made a face.

John was silent for a long time. “I’ve got a lot to learn.”

A rush of hot air, a loud ringing bell, rattling train tracks. Blurs and streaks of red slowly came to a stop, and the Hogwarts Express stood above them. 

“Looks like we’re just in time.”

John smiled at the train with a surge of nostalgia.  _ Ah, back when I knew so little. _

He shared a compartment with Mike, and he remembered to drop off his suitcase this time. His cat did show up, eventually, meowing loudly in demand of being feeded. 

He chatted happily with Mrs. Hudson, who was delighted to find him on the train, but disappointed by the fact that Sherlock wasn’t (“I do hope nothing’s wrong between you two”), hurrying away before John could say anything.

Despite his anticipation, he felt his eyelids droop as his surroundings slowly faded into sleep.

-+-+-+-

John’s neck ached like a million devils, but he kept craning and peering through the crowds of people (practically all with phones now.)

He pulled his out, too, and hurried over to a spot near the wall, where he wouldn’t be trampled. Andromeda jumped into his lap, and John absentmindedly rubbed her ears as he typed with one hand.

_ Where are you?  _

The response came instantly:

sorry!! got carried away with window shopping be there in ten seconds!

John huffed at the text, got up from the suitcase he was sitting on (despite his parents insisting he’ll wreck it) and began to walk towards the station entrance.

He didn’t get that far.

“JOHN WATSON!”

John looked to the front and saw two figures furiously waving their arms, flinging specks of snow, trying to shove through the mob of people. John immediately broke into a run, and within seconds he was beaming ear to ear, being happily suffocated by his mum.

And although John grumbled and waved away her worries, he still leaned into the hug.

Andromeda looked rather disgruntled by John’s attention being elsewhere, and pawed at the pant leg of John’s father, who looked a bit confused (but still picked her up).

His mother held John by the shoulders and looked him over. “You look a bit frazzled,” she murmured.

“So do you.”

“Is that a cat?”

“I told you in the letters.”

“Fair enough.” She sighed.

“Oh, and here!” she shouted, suddenly loud, and passed over two large bags. “The results of our window shopping.”

“It’s a neon green diary,” said John’s father, who had gained the liking of John’s cat. He raised a hand to John. “Hey buddy. How’s magic been treating you?”

John grinned. “Pretty great.”

“Good,” his father responded cheerily. “Now let’s get you home.”

-+-+-+-

“And Sherlock says you’re not allowed to do magic except at Hogwarts,” John concluded. “So I can’t do the dishes or mum’s makeup.”

“Shame,” chuckled his mother. She peered at John across the table. “You’ve mentioned this Sherlock Holmes a lot.” 

“Well, I mean, he’s a crucial part in my narration,” John joked.

“Is he your boyfriend?”

John choked on a strand of spaghetti. He coughed, waved his mother away, and gulped down a glass of water.

_ “No,” _ he finally said, with a tone of finality.

“But do you  _ want _ him to be?” his father cut in, tilting his head.

John chewed on his inner cheek and tried to stop his blushing (which he did every time someone mentioned _ anything _ remotely like this, thank you very much).

“I don’t think Sherlock ever liked anybody in that way,” he eventually said. “He’s really… cold.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“I don’t know anyone well enough to determine whether or not I want to date them,” John said firmly. “Sherlock is not my boyfriend.”

“Well,” elaborated his father. “Not yet.” 

-+-+-+-

John woke on Christmas morning to a blizzard, Andromeda impatiently pawing at his face, and a boatload of presents—his parents had really gone overboard. Half of them were for his cat.

After many thanks, John presented to his parents his gift: dozens of wizarding objects, anything he could find which weren’t illegal to bring to muggles, and some that were (but don’t tell).

-+-+-+-

“Looks like your mother’s asleep. I’ll bring her to bed. I ought to get some rest too.” John’s father bent down, and with a heave, gingerly picked up John’s mother, bridal style, and began to walk up the stairs (even with the weight of an extra person, John still couldn’t hear his footsteps at all). “You can keep watching,” he called out, trying to project his voice but trying to be quiet at the same time, “long as it’s not too loud. You know the rule—if I can hear it from upstairs, you turn it off.”

“Got it, dad.”

“Right, then. Happy new year.”

John sighed, sprawled on the couch with a sleeping cat on his lap, a cup of mint tea (apparently “invigorating”, which was his objective) in one hand and the remote in his other. It wasn’t even eleven thirty yet.

Ads (Swiffer!) New York Ball not dropped yet. Cartoons (Steven Universe). Ads (Tide Downy Fabric). Sports (Football.) Ads (Swiffer again). New year news (he would make a pun, but he couldn’t muster the effort). Just a timer (seventeen minutes and thirteen seconds).

_ Should I do my homework?  _

_ I should do my homework.  _

_ Charms… I think? Or was it History? _

John waved that thought away, and continued browsing channels. He took another gulp of cold tea.

_ Screw this, I’m watching cartoons. _

Moments later, something in his phone vibrated. 

_ Dad, 12:09: _

_ Did you miss it again? _

John looked at the reminder blankly.

Then he threw the remote on the carpet, where it landed with an unsatisfying  _ boof.  _ He then tossed it onto the roof.

Muffled laughter made its way through the ceiling.

John didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. 

-+-+-+-

“Goooood morning, dear!”

John groggily awoke, finding his neck even more sore than at King’s Cross. He got up into a sitting position, and found a perfect imprint of a remote control on his shoulder.

“Morning, mom. Hey, dad.” 

John cast a bitter look at the latter, who grinned devilishly. “How long’d you last this time?”

“I don’t know, like, five?”

“Aw, sod off. You barely made it to three.”

“What?” John frowned.

“I needed some water. You were completely passed out on the couch with the tv on.”

His mom laughed, but toned it down to a smile. “Don’t worry, it’s just your genes. You know, some people are jealous of you!”

“Yeah,  _ me,”  _ replied John. “I’m an insomniac when I actually should be sleeping, and black out when I’m trying not to! This is bloody awful,” he muttered, and closed his eyes.

Same old, same old.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2017!!!  
> Holiday family goodness.


	16. Gold-Stuffed Chocolates

“Hey, it’s OK,” John mumbled into her mom’s ear, “I’ll send letters weekly, and I’ll be back for spring break.”

“I know, I know,” her mom said with a sigh. “I’m just worried.”

“Mum, I’m almost sixteen and I know magic. _Magic._ I’ll be completely fine. Trust me.”

He felt her mother relax. “Yeah,” she breathed. “Yeah, OK.”

John turned to his father and gave him a hug. “See you in spring.”

His father held John by his shoulders, looked him over with a smile, and then reached out a hand and scruffed up John’s hair. “Don’t cause too much trouble.”

The train bell rang again, and John picked up his suitcase and tilted his head towards the train. “Gotta go. I’ll miss you!” he cried, and headed towards the door.

-+-+-+-

His eyes caught something on his bunk. A box.

John finished hanging up the sweater from his suitcase and then walked over. He stood on his tiptoes to reach the top bunk and picked it up. It wasn’t overly flashy or anything, just a pale white box with a gold ribbon. There was a small tag hanging from the ribbon; someone had written on it in a messy cursive.

_Merry Christmas! Love from Sherlock. <3 _

…

John blankly stared for a second, silence only broken by the faint pattering of the shower Mike was taking. John reread the note, brain finally processing, and pulled a face. Something was definitely wrong. An evil villain with the perfect laugh, threatening _avada kedavra_ on a bound-and-gagged Sherlock as he desperately wrote this little note behind his back with his toes, commanding Jackson to _(fly, my precious savior! You are my last hope!)_ fiercely battle through hurricanes and snowstorms to send this small box here.

_I've been reading too much fantasy._

He scanned the tag again, and frowned. The unfamiliar handwriting floated up a small memory; his mind flashed back to before the winter break, another small _(boring, 3/10)_ case from a sixth year, one that required a forged sick note (not for Sherlock—for John, who insisted he see out this case—none of the teachers apparently even cared if Sherlock attended their classes or not. In fact, John had a nagging suspicion they rather he not come.)

_“What the hell, Sherlock? How do you do that?!” he blurted out as he peered over Sherlock’s shoulder._

_“What do you mean?” said Sherlock nonchalantly, not stopping his writing._

_“You can—you don’t have a handwriting?”_

_Sherlock finishes the sentence with a messy_ “Sally Donovan” _, and only then, looks at John._ Looking, _like the time John suggested the the little black thread that was oh-so-important to the case could maybe just be a strand of his hair._

_John squirmed and looked away._

_“I have a normal handwriting. But I can change it at will,” Sherlock explains slowly._

_“Oh my God. Are you kidding me? That’s so unfair.” John crosses his arms and glares. “That’s so_ cool.”

_Sherlock tightens his lips and looks down, trying to hide a smile._

Flashback finished, John looked back down at the seeming-innocuous note. Squiggly j’s, i’s dotted with tiny circles. Unfamiliar. Why would Sherlock bother changing his writing?

He turned the tag over. Nothing. John grabbed his phone and turned on the black light.

Nothing?

 _Very_ strange, indeed.

“Er—do you know what this is?” he said as Mike emerged from the bathroom, dripping water on the red-and-gold carpet. John held up the probably-hexed box and gave it a little shake.

Mike smiled. “Nope. Was there when I came here.”

John made another face. “Any chance it’s cursed?”

“Depends.”

“High risk, considering it’s from Sherlock,” John said under his breath.

Mike laughed. “Probably.” John couldn’t tell if he was joking.

“… I’ll take the risk,” he finally said as he undid the ribbon and opened the box.

To a scattering of chocolate frogs?

“Well then,” said John, because he didn’t know what else to say. “Any chance they’re spiked with potions or hexes or something?”

Coming closer, Mike peered at the box. “Ooh, you’ve got the special ones. The house elves made some homemade chocolates themselves,” he elaborated, “see how it’s got the Hogwarts seal on the back? They only made, like, ten before they got tired of it.”

“Hmm. Yeah, okay.” John looked at the frog backs. “They do have the logo, I mean seal… except for that one,” he joked, pointing at a chocolate frog with a deformed, warped back.

He picked one up, and, after a moment of contemplation, bit off the head, put the beheaded frog back into the box, and closed the lid. “If I start acting weird, send me to the hospital.”

John put the box back onto his pillow, looked at it for a long time, and then continued stocking the closet, trying unsuccessfully to store the thought to the back of his mind.

After changing back into his school robes, John spoke up again. “Anything off about me?”

Tilting his head and looking him over, Mike shook his head. “Nothing, mate. You’re fine. Besides,” he added tentatively, “there’s no motive. Sherlock doesn’t have a reason to drug you.”

“But from this note,” John said incredulously, picking up the box and re-reading the tag, “I can’t help but think the opposite.”

“John, how do you get that from ‘merry christmas! Love from Sherlock’ and a bloody heart?”

John shut his mouth tightly, and ate another chocolate frog; the one with the deformed back.

_Crunch._

“Owww,” John said, clutching his jaw. He spat out a lump. “What the…” He walked to the bathroom in a daze, not even bothering to scold Mike for leaving his wet towel on the floor, and turned on the tap, scrubbing off the chocolate, revealing what he had almost broken his teeth on.

John stares at the object in his hand. “OK, that’s it,” he declares, and begins to walk out the door.

“Oi, where you going?” Mike said, piqued.

John mutters under his breath, highly regretting not splashing some cold water on his face, and wordlessly holds up a ring.

-+-+-+-

“Sherlock!” John yells, pounding on the door, not bothering to use the knocker.

“Where do Vanished objects go?”

“Up your bloody arse.”

“Incorrect.”

“Oh, for the love of…” John shuts his eyes and leans on the door.

“Non-being, which is, to say, everything.”

The door opens just as John stumbles back from what would’ve been a very embarrassing fall.

“Hello,” Sherlock says lightly, smile playing at his lips.

John, breathing heavily, holds up the ring, water droplets clinging to the shiny gold band, chocolate smudges and all, and shakes his head. “I don’t know what your idea is, but it’s not…” he trails off at Sherlock’s expression. “You’ve got that look. What is it?”

Sherlock takes the ring and slips in onto a thin finger, then easily slips it off. He doesn’t seem to acknowledge anything John has said.

John groans. “Sherlock. Please tell me what it is that you are no doubt deducing right now.”

Sherlock holds up the ring and, after a moment of contemplation, licks it.

_“Sherlock!”_

“We need to see Anderson right now,” Sherlock says, more to himself than anything, ignoring John’s sputtering of how unsanitary he was.

“Why?” John finally manages to say, after giving up on trying to give a lecture on hygiene.

“Because,” Sherlock says, casting an annoyed look to John, who feels rather offended, really—“He has lost his wedding ring.”

He then walks past John without another word, or look back. John shakes his head, wondering how the tables had turned so fast, and follows, feeling really very reluctant. They fall into the natural way of Sherlock striding ahead and John struggling to catch up.

 _“Please,”_ John calls out, “I just got pranked with a proposal; could you please tell me what you know?!”

Sherlock stops abruptly and John runs into him.

“Alright,” Sherlock said, and begins walking at his abnormally fast pace again.

 _“And_ slow down,” John said pointedly, wondering why he even bothers.

“Alright,” Sherlock said again, and slows down to John’s speed. “Someone’s trying to frame me.”

“You?” says John incredulously, because _excuse me,_ it was _him_ who found Anderson’s wedding ring in a chocolate frog—albeit from someone pretending to be Sherlock, but still.

“Yes, me,” Sherlock says, “you’re just a _pawn.”_ He pauses as he sees John, who can look quite scary when he wanted to, _thank you very much._ “In their game, of course.”

“And in yours?” John asks, still offended.

Sherlock thinks for a second. “Bishop. Maybe a rook.”

Humming with thought, John decides after a second that bishop-or-rook is pretty good by Sherlock’s standards. _Then again, I’m one of his only friends._ Whatever.

“Not the king?” he offers mischievously.

Now it’s Sherlock who looks offended (mind you, his reason is much weaker than John’s). “ _I’m_ the king,” he says haughtily.

“Queen?” John suggests, performing his best attempt at a hair flip with two-inch hair.

A corner of Sherlock’s mouth quirks up. “Mmm, no.”

“Who is it then? Mycroft?”

 _“Mycroft?”_ Sherlock says incredulously, giving John a swat on the top of his head. “He’s my _opponent._ ”

“Really. Your archenemy?” John says jokingly.

Sherlock nods seriously.

“Oookay… who is it then?”

The answer comes short and concise. “Also me.”

John snickers and gives Sherlock’s shoulder a playful push. “That’s not how it works.”

Sherlock waves a hand. “It’s my game, I make the rules.”

“Oh, so, do you always win, too?”

“Yes, but only because the opponents are too easy.”

John rolls his eyes. “Of course.”

“Hey!” he immediately follows with, as he realises the incredible deviation from their original topic. ‘Continue with your deduction, please.”

“That’s pretty much it, really.”

“No, I mean, how you _know.”_

 _“Oh,”_ says Sherlock with realisation. “Okay.” He held up the ring. “The ring is smudged with chocolate, which upon tasting is chocolate from the house-elves who work here. The simplest way this could happen was if someone melted down a chocolate frog and stuck the ring inside.”

“Yes,” John says firmly as the image of the chocolate frog’s back flashes into his mind.

“The ring is no doubt Anderson’s, and judging from its rusted outer edge and clean inner, he takes it off regularly—over a dozen potion ingredients can damage gold, perhaps he’s learned this lesson the hard way—or maybe he’s just cheating. Anyways, someone, whom I think I know but am not going to jump to conclusions, must’ve taken it from his office, quite easily, too, Anderson probably didn’t even close his bloody door, they wouldn’t even need alohomora, or the password for that matter, how _stupid,_ no wonder Mycroft fired him—anyway. Someone took it and sent it to you with the intention of framing me.” Sherlock huffs and rolls his eyes briefly. “So boring.”

“I thought you liked cases,” John says with a frown, turning his head to look at Sherlock.

“Not this childish toddler rubbish. Mycroft’s so _slow,_ he hasn’t given me a case in _days!_ Honestly, the muggle world has more murders at this point. _”_ Sherlock’s speaking with more despair than a normal person ought to have. Then again…

John smiles ruefully.

“You take cases from the Ministry of Magic?” he adds.

“Obviously,” says Sherlock, grandly, smugly. “How else do you think Lestrade knows me so well?”

John retort of “because he works for, and has a crush on, your brother, and also because you get into far more trouble than Slytherin and Gryffindor combined, _seriously_ —” is cut off as Sherlock suddenly stops walking. Thankfully, John didn’t run into Sherlock this time.

“Now,” Sherlock says, “I need to see the rest.”

“Hey, hold on,” John said with complete confusion. He stared at the Fat Lady Portrait, who huffs with a “ _you again”_ to Sherlock.

Sherlock grinned. “You fell for it again.”

John scowls, tries to remember when exactly Sherlock had steered them back to where John came from, found that he couldn’t, and made a mental note in his growing list of things-I-really-need-to-pay-more-attention-to, and looks at the door. “Pig snout,” he says, glad it wasn’t one of those fancy latin-or-whatever phrases this time, and they entered the room.

“What’s going on…” Mike trailed off as the other figure bounded into the room. John tilted a head to Sherlock, who ignored both of them and immediately heading over to John’s bed.

“Hello, Sherlock,” says Mike meekly.

“Hello,” Sherlock responds absentmindedly. “You haven’t surpassed your drinking age yet.”

“What?”

“Oh, it’s elementary,” Sherlock enthuses. “Your—”

“Nevermind,” John cuts in, because 1. Mike’s face was increasing in guilt and horror, and John was a good friend, and 2. despite wanting to know what’s going on in Sherlock’s mind, he really wanted to get to the bottom of this case first.

Sherlock gives John an annoyed look. “You’ve taken a shower even before unpacking, and that shirt you’ve got stuffed into your suitcase reeks of beer,” he says in his usual deducting rapid-fire, without stopping his examination of the chocolate frogs. “ _Easy!”_ he sings, briefly throwing his hands into the air.

“Woah, woah—” With a choked noise, Mike silently holds up one hand and wiggles his thumb, then points it towards Sherlock, who was sniffing the gift tag.

On Sherlock’s thumb, a chocolate-stained ring.

“Sorry, what?” John makes the same noise as Mike, and shakes his head vigorously. “It’s Anderson’s ring.”

“It’s our _Headmaster’s?!”_

John nodded, focused on Sherlock, trying to deduce what he was deducing. Sherlock took one look at the note, and grimaced. He turned back around. “We’re done here,” he said shortly, and walked towards the door.

“See ya, Mike.” John jogged after a retreating Sherlock.

“He didn’t even _try._ Isn’t there, like, some test or assignment or something? Doesn’t he have anything better to do?” Sherlock quietly ranted, sounding very adorably childish.

“He?” John piped up immediately, eyes darting over to meet Sherlock’s.

“Charles. Attempted fake handwriting; dots the i’s and squiggles the j’s. He doesn’t squiggle j’s; he added the squiggles afterwards. Very faint cologne he wears to impress Irene Adler. Obvious.” Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose. “He’s bloody determined, I’ll give you that.”

He fell into a silence, and John was left to his thoughts.

After about fifteen seconds, John decided that: 1. all this stuff was giving him a headache and 2. he wasn’t going to ask Sherlock to repeat everything so 3. he was just going to think about chess instead.

More specifically, his game of chess.

_So I’m the king, of course._

His parents were probably queen… were they? Can you have two queens? You can have multiple opponents? _What the hell is this metaphor?_

“Sherlock… about that chess game.”

Sherlock smiled sideways. “Metaphors are always confusing, John. Especially mine.”

“I… bleh. Nevermind.” John looked around. “Where’re we going now?”

“Ravenclaw Tower.” After saying this, Sherlock looked over at John, and then smiled, and spoke again. “The ring’s only been in Anderson’s office since this morning, obviously considering he’s only been here since then. He took off his ring and placed it into the fake velvet container he keeps in his second drawer for protection, little good that did him, and went off to…” Sherlock trailed off, eyes becoming hazy and lips pursed. John watched intently, and searched his mind for what Sherlock was no doubt deducing. He failed, as usual, and sighed impatiently.

“Anyways?” He prompted, eager to know the rest.

“That’s pretty much it. Charles was walking by to get to the Gryffindor tower and saw the ring, somehow…” he trailed off again, but picked back up quickly, “anyways, he came up with the bright idea to do this.”

“Why?”

“Gosh, it’s a mystery, innit? Why would _he_ want to frame _me?”_

John giggled. “Okay, okay. Fine. There are a lot of people holding a grudge against you—I assume for good reason,” he added, side-eyeing Sherlock, who didn’t bother denying it (actually, he looked quite proud). _“So_ glad I’m not your enemy,” he muttered.

“You should be,” Sherlock said shortly, and picked up the pace. “Come on, he’ll be there in around four minutes.”

John sighed as Sherlock began walking even faster than his previous pace, and pretty much broke into a run.

He knew going back to Hogwarts was going to be different. Magic, remember?

But before he could even finish unpacking, he had bit into a chocolate frog containing his Headmaster’s ring from Charles who was pretending to be Sherlock to frame him, and now they were going to find Anderson and convince him they didn’t steal his ring, and then they were going to find some proof, and then he was going to start up the muggle club thing again, and then there would undoubtedly be another case, and this was going to last the entire year.

_Brilliant._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll probably update around every other week now. Meh.  
> One of my goals for this story is to get better at writing mystery, so please bear with me and my not-very-good cases until I (hopefully) get better!  
> Also: there will be eventual fluff, but I need to sort out all the other problems/tangents/storylines first. Not to mention an actual plot.  
> Thank you again for reading <3  
> 


	17. Case Closed #2

At this point, John was so uncomfortable, he would rather just miss the mystery and leave. 

But then again, it was a bit entertaining as well. The history between Sherlock and Anderson seemed very abundant.

“Sherlock, you can’t possibly think—”

“This time,  _ really,  _ Anderson—”

“Don’t trick me, boy, I won’t forget the last time you broke in—”

“Hardly, the door wasn’t even hexed—”

_ “When you broke in,”  _ Anderson pressed on, “and ransacked all the papers—”

“You were about to let in a murderous psychopath—”

“Yes, you would think I’d’ve learned my lesson by now.”

Sherlock scoffed. “You should really remember—”

“Oh, Merlin, please, no more of that ‘sociopath’ rubbish—”

_ “Boys!”  _ John barked out suddenly.

“Sherlock is telling the truth,” he said with a tight smile, envisioning himself with a twitching eye. “Why would he return it otherwise?”

“Probably bugged, hexed, or jinxed it, or made a copy of it and sold the real one for alcohol or morphine or cocaine or something,” Anderson rambled, casting a side-eye.

“Just cocaine,” Sherlock shrugged, “it’s easier to get.”

John scoffed and rolled his eyes. Sherlock looked over to him, with just the  _ tiniest _ bit of discomfort, just the slightest frown. A pause. Oh dear.

John’s chest tightened, and he swallowed and looked back. Anderson lowered his suddenly-panicky eyes, turned away from the two and rearranged some papers on his desk. This wasn’t so entertaining anymore.

“Oh,” said John.

Sherlock wasn’t looking at John anymore. 

“What was all that about your parents? Drunk? What a hypocrite.”

Ignoring the small part of him that wasn’t melodramatic, he turned and walked away.

After turning a corner, John leaned on a wall (after checking it wasn’t fake and he wouldn’t sink through it and appear on the other side of the castle, of course) and blew out a long breath. 

At the expense of sounding like a naive, innocent homeschooler, John was taken aback.  _ Sherlock,  _ of all people. John didn’t know, really. God, he didn’t even know  _ how  _ he knew he didn’t know. Or how he didn’t?

John frowned and closed his eyes. _ “Sherlock,”  _ he mumbled, unbelievingly. 

Whenever a case popped up, he seemed to practically transform, this lazy, lounging figure, mumbling about the importance of bees, playing or composing violin for hours and hours; to a adrenaline-fueled bloodhound, eyes blazing in a way John had grew familiar with, the look that made his own heart stutter with excitement—

So incredibly hyper, in fact, that it was like he was on an extremely high stimulant.

The sound of footsteps drew closer. He ignored it. Probably some random person, going to visit a friend or something, eager to see them after weeks of being apart, and also because  _ there was a fricking ring in his chocolate _ —

“Oh wait, that’s just Sherlock,” John said aloud.

“What about Sherlock?” 

John opened his eyes. Stood in front of him was the accused framer. He seemed much less threatening now, John thought.

“I’m curious. I want to know. What about Sherlock?” Charles pressed.

“None of your business,” John snapped.

Charles frowned slightly and narrowed his eyes through wire glasses. “It’s always easier to vent. I’m good at keeping secrets.”

“You realise that makes it harder for me to trust you?”

“You’re still going to,” the other said with a smile. “It’s usually Sherlock, of course, but this is about him, right? I’m an okay substitute.”

John’s shoulders tensed, then loosened. He gave Charles a meek smile, because, honestly, they were fifteen. His imagination always ran wild, and with the addition of magic, it was absolutely rogue.

“Sherlock,” he said curtly, “does cocaine.” Clipped and clear and quiet.

Charles looked surprised for a moment, but then he rolled his eyes. “Obviously. Did you really not know?” He smiled furtively. “Guess he keeps more secrets than me.”

_ “Apparently yes,” _ John said with a scowl (really more of a pout). “Do you?” he asked, just out of curiosity.

“Nope,” was the firm response. “Promise.”

John frowned, and looked into Charles’ sharp grey eyes, holding the stare for a couple of seconds. Charles peered back.

“Okay, sure,” John relented. “What else?” he asked abruptly. “What else is there I don’t know?”

“Oh, dear,” Charles said quietly. “That’ll take a while. I think you’d better let Sherlock explain himself.” He raised a hand in farewell and shimmered out of sight.

At the same time, John felt a hand on his back. He twisted around and glared.

Sherlock didn’t move his hand away. He narrowed his eyes at what seemed to be nothing, and glared, too—much more intimidating than John’s. He drew out his wand and spun it in a circle around both of them.

“Eurrgh,” John said. It felt like someone was cracking a dozen raw eggs on their heads.

“Shush,” Sherlock murmured. John felt the hand on his back with just a bit more pressure than before, and then it was steering him away, forcing him to walk. John whipped his head around, and saw nothing.

Nothing.

His eyes widened, but he kept silent, and allowed Sherlock’s hand to guide him to who knows where, meek as a lamb.

For about ten seconds. Then his Gryffindor kicked in and he twisted around again and wriggled away, blindly flailing his arms. He heard a grunt and focused there. His foot connected with something, and he heard a pained noise that brought him some satisfaction. 

“That’s for practically kidnapping me! Jeez,” John mumbled as they shimmered back into view. Sherlock was doubled down. 

After a moment, Sherlock straightened up with a glare of begrudging respect. He looked around and pushed a brick, revealing yet another secret passage. He gestured John to follow, and, despite the circumstances, John did, because if anything happened, he could just kick him in the groin again.  _ Thank you, three sessions of taekwondo training. _

“What did Charles want,” Sherlock demanded, sitting down on a stair.

“Hey hey,” John said quickly. “Shut up. You don’t get to interrogate me. I get to question you this time.”

Sherlock thought for a moment. “I thought that was what usually happens.” He grinned and John scowled. “Okay, fine,” he relented.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” John began, sitting down beside Sherlock.

“I didn’t think it mattered.”

“Of course it did!”

“Really? So we’re not friends anymore?” Sherlock furrowed his brow, looking genuinely confused.

“What? No! It’s just… you… should… stop?” John stammered, and then groaned and ran a hand through his matted hair. “Ow.” He stopped. 

Sherlock looked over, pondered something, scooched a bit closer, and combed a hand through John’s hair.

“—the  _ hell  _ are you doing?!” 

“I’m good with knots,” Sherlock responded, like untangling John’s hair was the most casual thing in the world, “and it’s been bothering me since this morning.” 

“Well I’m sorry I didn’t get to brush my frickin hair,” John muttered, crossing his arms, suddenly glad that 1, he’d taken a shower before boarding the train, and 2, that it was a secret passage. 

They didn’t speak for a minute. Sherlock ambiently unknotted John’s hair, as they both sat in silence, staring at the wall.

John was the first to break the silence. “You are good at untangling knots,” he blurted without thinking, as Sherlock stopped untangling his hair and began smoothing it down.

Sherlock hummed. “Mm hmm. I had practise. It’s much easier with your short hair.” Suddenly, his fingers tensed and stopped. John perked up and rewound his words.

“You brushed your mother’s hair?” John guessed, and grinned. “Aw, that’s so sweet!”

“Sure,” Sherlock said shortly, and moved a lock of John’s hair to the other side, a bit stiffly.

“Wait, no,” John said, noticing. “Hmm. Your sister?” he guessed again innocently.

The fingers tightened into a fist. 

“Ow!” John said sharply, ducking. Sherlock drew his hand away.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. 

John looked up and raised an eyebrow. “Wow. What’d I do?”

“The case,” Sherlock said abruptly, standing up. 

“Hey!” John lightly touched the other’s arm. “Seriously, don’t just avoid the questions. Tell me. I won’t be mad or anything.” He saw the other’s bemused look. “Okay, uh. I won’t be any more mad than I already am.”

“It’s not,” Sherlock started, then clammed up. He ran his hand through his  _ (own)  _ hair, and closed his eyes. “I can’t right now. Eventually,” he said quietly.

John made a frustrated noise, wrung his hands, patted down his hair (which was much smoother now) and huffed. Sherlock, master of table turning. “Fine. The case.”

“The case,” Sherlock said, and started to walk down the stairs, once again, slowly, so John could catch up.

-+-+-+-

“Are you sure we’re allowed to be here?”

“If I said no, you’d still follow.”

John opened his mouth, paused,  _ pfft- _ ed, and followed. “Why do we even need to do this? You said it yourself, it’s ‘obviously’ Charles.”

“Always be thorough,” reprimanded Sherlock. “Now, go.”

“What?” John sputtered. “Why me?”

“You want to play a part, don’t you?” Sherlock said, eyes slightly questioning. “Go ahead.”

“O-Of course,” John said, feeling a bit warm. He was reminded of a teacher encouraging a student, which made him feel a bit indignant, but, at least in this area, it was an accurate representation.

“I’m sorry if I screw this up,” he warned.

“It’s okay,” Sherlock said, looking away and quickly licking his lips. “We’ll be even.”

John nodded slightly, and walked up to the painting. He gingerly reached out a hand and gave the pear in the bowl pictured a meek little rub. It giggled. Delighted, John let out a small laugh himself and continued tickling the fruit. It squirmed around, and then suddenly grew in size. He stepped back as it quickly transformed into a green door-knob.

Sherlock tilted his head to the door, and nodded once. “Don’t mention me.”

“Why?”

“If you’d enjoy a nice porridge bath…”

John rolled his eyes and gave Sherlock a thumbs up. “Gotcha. Wish me luck.” He then stepped through the door.

“Woah!” he blurted out, and was quickly silenced by a tiny creature that John now knew as a house elf. 

Almost dropping the raw turkey he was holding, the house elf did a double take at John, gaped, blinked those huge watery tennis-ball eyes, and frantically gained his composure. “Good evening. What brings you here?” 

“Um,” John said, mind screeching to a dead stop. “Sorry for startling you.”

“No worries,” came the hastened response. “We don’t get visitors often.”

“Of course not,” John replied absentmindedly. Then he quickly shook his head and held up his hands. “I mean—I didn’t mean that, I mean—” He made an awkward noise, and paused. “It’s a very nice kitchen.”

“Thank you, sir,” the house elf said shortly.

“Anyways,” John said, frantic to get this over with, “you know the chocolate frogs you made?”

“Yes?” the other said, perking up. “Special Hogwarts chocolate frogs, very limited, very delicious. I’m very sorry, sir, we’ve  _ just  _ sold out—”

“Ah, no,” John interrupted. “It’s, um, I had a box, and y’know, it’s quite funny, there was a… something with the chocolates, I was wondering if anyone had come around when you were making them?”

“Yes, sir,” the elf said slowly, pondering. “This morning, a boy—”

“Who?” John blurted. The house elf gave John an annoyed look.

“Sorry,” John said quickly. “What did he look like?”

“Tall, lanky, dark curly hair, weird slanted eyes…” the house elf dwindled off at John’s increasingly disturbed look.

And then he laughed. The little house elf burst out howling.

John, poor guy, was so confused, he sat down right on the floor, crossed his legs, and covered his face with his hands.

“Many apologies, sir,” the house elf said as it finally finished his bout of laughter. His big-watery-tennis-ball-eyes seemed much more devious than before. 

“Polyjuice Potion,” he confessed. “The boy this morning was charmed to look like Sherlock Holmes. Didn’t act like him at all, if you ask me. His disguise faded as he was leaving and I caught a glance—grey eyes, wonky glasses—I’d say you’ve got yourself an admirer.”

“More like a shipper if you ask me,” John muttered sardonically, still a bit disoriented. 

The elf cocked his head and looked perplexed. 

“Nevermind,” John said, waving his hand. “That’s all. Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” the house elf replied smoothly.

With a final wave, John left the Hogwarts kitchen.

-+-+-+-

The house elf took a steaming turkey out of the oven. “Back again?”

John smiled a bit. “Brought another guest, too— _ come in!”  _ he shouted to the door. He couldn’t distinguish the response, if there was one—the kitchen was quite loud.

“Hey,” he asked, looking at the turkey, “why don’t you just use a spell to cook? It’d cut down lots of time.”

“Absolutely, you could,” the elf responded, wiping his hands on his clothes—rags, really—and crossing his knobby arms. “But we’re a stickler for tradition.”

_ Like Mycroft.  _ John nodded.

“Hello,” said Anderson, appearing from the door. “Apparently I wasn’t tickling the pear right.”

“Good evening, master,” the house elf said immediately, with a bow. “What do you require?”

“Just a brief description of the boy you saw here this morning, please.”

“Yes, of course. He was disguised as Sherlock. It wore off right before he left. Wire glasses, grey eyes, average height, slight build.”

John gave Anderson a smug look. Anderson shrugged. “That will be all,” he said to the house elf. “Thank you.”

The house elf bowed, and they exited. 

“I suppose it was Charles,” Anderson said begrudgingly. “No real harm was done, really. I think I ought to leave the payback to Sherlock.”

“I think he’d do it anyways,” John agreed. Then: “He didn’t tell me about the Polyjuice at first, you know. He described Sherlock.”

Anderson smirked. “That damn thing was teasing you.”

John blinked, and let out a long breath. “I’m a bit offended,” he admitted.

“You should be used to that by now,” Anderson quipped.

John laughed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I imagine Charles would constantly attempt to trouble Sherlock, and Sherlock on his part would immensely enjoy it. Mutual relationship!


	18. Lash

When John started the muggle club/group/thing, he didn’t expect it to be much. He wasn’t trying for a new curriculum, or a class, or a secret club with handshakes and codewords and… whatever else cool clubs had. He just wanted wizards to be more informed of their friendly muggle neighbours. After all, for fifteen years, he was one of them. This room just made it easier. 

(Speaking of which, after much pestering, John finally drew from Sherlock how he managed to create such a muggle-based area. It wasn’t much of a confession, actually —apparently John just doesn’t think. 

“I help Lestrade in cases, John,” he had said with the famous exasperated eye-roll. “Mycroft is the Ministry of Magic and Lestrade is the Muggle wing. Must I elaborate further?”

John was confused. “A lot of your cases are on video games and telly?” 

“Yes!”

“Fair enough,” John said with a innocuous shrug, and that was it.)

With that said, the muggle club, or the MCs, as John liked to call it, wasn’t really much of a club than a… muggle activity centre. Whoever wanted to join simply paced back and forth in front of the Room of Requirement, thinking about that specific room, and it would appear. They could explore what was in the room already—turn on the tv and watch a movie, take a book, play a videogame, stuff like that. Or, if they wished, they could imagine something more.

(It actually took John a while to realise _ he _ could make objects appear, too. The result was quite chaotic. But in his defense, his imagination always ran wild.)

And then someone complained about how this-person-or-another would watch ahead of whatever show they were watching, and how they were supposed to watch it in a group or whatever. So now they had saturday night watchings.

And then John walked in on dozens of people furiously playing Mario Kart.

And then Sherlock walked in on John crushing everyone else in the game—after all, he did have fifteen more years of experience.

And then people wanted all-nighter binge-watchings. John was ecstatic—he always had trouble sleeping anyways. 

The MC’s were quite good at finding loopholes. Specifically Sherlock.

“No students  _ out of bed _ ,” he had said with a nasty grin. “How are your levitation spells?”

And that was how, one night, John sat on the edge of his bed with a dozen other students, and floated his bed down the dark hallways.

Of course Anderson eventually called them out, but Sherlock engrossed the Headmaster in such a rapid-fire debate that the other wizard eventually threw his arms up, shook his head, and left.

_ “There will be no students out of their dorms by curfew,”  _ Anderson declared the next morning.

“We can’t float our entire dorm, right?” John said jokingly.

Sherlock lightly elbowed John and smiled craftily. “No, but we  _ can _ change the clocks.”

So there became of the muggle club. Not a club, just a room. Where you could shove aside your homework and watch an entire season of a show whilst eating popcorn and crying, where you could host Mario Kart contests and DDR (contrarily, John was completely rubbish at this) and have furious discussions over which book character deserved to die, and who didn’t, and  _ goddamnit, why must this author insist on prolonging our suffering? _

It was nice.

* * *

 

Every time something important was soon to be due, there would always be a period of time where everything would be in a frenzy of preparation.

For O.W.L.’s, this was the time. It seemed to arrive overnight; John suddenly found himself immersed in piles of assignments, tests, projects… his desk would be too covered with sheets of parchment (scoff) to write letters, his weekly tv-watching club would usually arrive just because of the desperation to procrastinate, to forget about the mountains of homework due, just for a couple of hours, to immerse themselves in the wonders of telly, before delving, once again, into the horrible, cruel reality of whatever test they absolutely completely utterly forgot about until that last minute.

He found that he needed Sherlock much more.

-+-+-+-

_ “Wingardium leviosa!” _

A brief, desperate flutter, a curling of the page, a weak tremble of motion.

“Not enough confidence. Terrible,” Sherlock declared ( _ right, that helped a lot)  _ and moved along.

-+-+-+-

Wormwood, dash of cinnamon, dragon claw, seven clockwise, one counter, seven clockwise, one counter, onetwothreefourfivesixseveneight —

John’s was yanked back roughly. A column of white fire whooshed in front of his face, stinging and searing.

“Way too much wormwood. Eight stirs clockwise? Idiot.”

-+-+-+-

_ “Levicorpus!” _

_ “L _ — _ Liberacourpis?” _

Sherlock groaned and glared at the helplessly floating figure above him.  _ “Liberacorpus,”  _ he muttered without looking, and John fell with a thump onto the floor.

-+-+-+-

John gingerly took Sherlock’s hand and traced a line.

“You, uh… died this tuesday…?”

Sherlock slapped his hand away. “That’s my headline!”

John cringed away.

-+-+-+-

“First noted goblin riot.”

“Oh, bloody hell, uh, eighteen… fifty-nine?”

Sherlock seemed ready to snap. He shoved his hands into his hair. “There is,” he hissed, “nothing that correlates to that date.”

“Eighteen fifty-eight?” John muttered sardonically. “God, I don’t know.”

“This isn’t a bloody joke. You’ve got an exam months away, and you are being an absolute imbecile. I’ve taught all this to you at least seven times, and you’ve got exactly NONE of it down!” Sherlock was shouting now.

John pressed his lips together tightly and breathed deeply. He stared steadily ahead.

This seemed to irritate Sherlock even more. 

“I thought you weren't as idiotic as the others, but apparently I was mistaken.” He shut his eyes tightly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Cast a patronus. That gives you bonus marks, which you are obviously in great need of.”

_ “What?!”  _ John spat, turning on Sherlock. “You never taught me that!”

The other stared at him, eyes blazing. “I don’t _ need,”  _ he growled, “to teach you _ anything. _ You’ve learned this in class, didn’t you? Oh, don’t tell me you were daydreaming again. Now cast a patronus.”

John wasn’t even fazed by now. He took his wand and hissed the words.

Not even a wisp.

_ “Shut up,”  _ John said this time, as Sherlock opened his mouth again. “Just—please, shut your stupid, stuck-up face.”

Sherlock shut his mouth immediately.

All the insults, the quick snaps of irritation, the patronising comments, had been collectively growing into a bundle in John’s stomach. It overflowed now; they fluttered up and out of his mouth. 

“A patronus needs  _ happy memories,  _ Sherlock. You think I could cast one right now? Frankly, I don’t think  _ you  _ could do that. Hmm?” John tilted his head, looking at Sherlock, whose eyes were growing quite big. “I didn’t think so. Not everyone can be as—as  _ different,”  _ John spat, “as  _ you, Sherlock Holmes.  _ I don’t know how the hell you got to be so good at magic, but not everyone—in fact, almost no one _ ,”  _ he sneered, “is like  _ you!  _ All you’ve done is criticise me. You can deduct where I bought my shampoo, but you don’t have the skills to see how hard I’m trying? Are you unaware of the fact that I’ve only known magic was even  _ real _ since  _ september?  _ No wonder you have no friends! For god’s sake, Sherlock, just shut the hell up!”

John slashed his wand in a wide arc across him. This time, he wasn’t trying to use magic, but the reaction was bigger than any spell he’s cast.

Sherlock staggered back violently. His eyes were unnaturally huge and fixated on John, mouth slightly open.

John’s ragged breathing was all that was heard.

-+-+-+-

_ You screwed it up. You screwed it up again. _

Sherlock slammed his eyes shut, blocking out vi sion—but not  thoughts. He tried to speak, but his mind drowned out his mouth, the words sucked into a vortex and swirled away. 

He backed up blindly and sank down onto the floor.

-+-+-+-

He was standing in a palace, a golden palace, a thousand and one rooms. He picked one at random; anywhere but here.  _ Anywhere but here.  _

-+-+-+-

Chatter, screams, giggles, and cries echoed through the room. A boy with messy curls atop his head scanned his surroundings with bright eyes. 

A chittering group, crowded around, bent over with feets together. 

Six-year-old Sherlock Holmes looked at them with a determined nod, and headed over.

“Can I play, too?” 

The other boy twisted his face into something of confusion, straightening up from counting feet. Sherlock broke into an unintentionally loopy smile.  _ Smile more,  _ Mummy had told him.  _ Go make some friends.  _

The others stood up after the first boy. Sherlock noticed that the first boy was taller than all the other kids . 

Sherlock was taller than him.

“Tommyyyy!” a girl squealed and gasped.  _ “He’s taller than you!” _

Everyone  _ ooh- _ ed. A blond-haired girl patted Sherlock’s curls, almost in awe, and Tommy scowled. Sherlock ducked his head away from sticky hands and tried to make himself shorter, just a little, it couldn’t hurt—

_ You can’t!  _ his mind screamed.  _ Mummy said so!  _

He pouted miserably and stopped.

“Who are you?” Tommy said bluntly, crossing his arms.

Sherlock twisted a curl of hair. “I’m Sherlock Holmes,” he recited, trying his utmost to correctly pronounce his s's. “This is my first day at Totts’ Daycare for Young Wizards.” He looked at the other with hopeful eyes. “Can I play?”

Tommy looked angry.

Sherlock tightened his fingers on the hem of his shirt. He bit his lip and scanned the circle of toddlers.

His eyes landed on the girl with blond braids.

_ Sherlock’s mother fidgeting with his curls, murmuring a quick untangling spell, as Sherlock looked around with undeterred curiosity. _

Sherlock resisted the urge to snap his fingers.  _ Aha!  _

He had seen the girl, seen her mother, too.  _ Remember to include others, okay, darling?  _ the mother had said as she adjusted her pink dress.

Sherlock looked straight into the girl’s blue eyes. “It’s good to include others,” he recited.

The girl took a little step back, recollection clear on her face. She frowned, and then looked at Tommy. “Yeah, Tommy. Don’t be mean.”

Tommy was at a standstill. Sherlock put on his best smile.

“Okay, fine,” he relented after a long glare. “You can play.”

Sherlock beamed.

-+-+-+-

They said he was cheating, but he didn’t, he didn’t cheat _ ,  _ he had protested, soon shouting, couldn’t they see? The rustling, the whispers, the giggles, the bulge behind the curtains, the door that was once closed now open; the faintest breeze of movement across his hands that were covering his eyes, trailing right to the cupboard… he explained, he debated, no one listened, not even Mrs.P, who gawped a little after Sherlock’s rant, and then told him sternly that cheating was A Very Bad Thing.

After Sherlock profusely defended himself, dousing himself with denial, Mrs.P rubbed her eyes, shook her head, and left to another group of kids.

During Snack Time, Tommy scooted over to Sherlock with such a look in his eyes that he immediately thought,  _ Slytherin. _

“You’re so weird,” he whispered fiercely, breath hot in his ears. “No wonder you have no friends.”

(the first of many to come)

_ Not true,  _ Sherlock had thought, feeling his eyes beginning to burn but violently shoving the emotions away.  _ I have Mycroft and Mummy and Papa and _ —

But that doesn’t count, does it?

-+-+-+-

Sherlock let out a huge breath, not realising he had been holding it, and opened his eyes to the hallway.

“That,” he declared, to no one but himself, “was just as bad.”

_ Not ‘anywhere but here’,  _ he then thought, and took a familiar door.

He was standing in a bustling crowd, New York, times square. Entertainers and singers and people waving flyers, desperately shouting sales pitches in hopes of a buyer. 

His eyes opened and scanned the streets. Strategic, practised, habit and method. Simple. Easy. Peaceful.

_ Doctor. Teacher. Three kids, one toddler, retriever and tabby cat. Cheating, engaged, drug dealer. Fur on coats, stains on pant hems, imprints of a ring, a necklace. _

Someone walked up and stood in the middle of the crowd, unmoving. Sherlock’s brain went into overdrive, it was a dozen, more than that, people, crammed together into one indistinguishable figure.  _ Toddler, teenager, parent, professor, jealous-married-engaged-sick _ _ — _

_ You’re so weird, _ it said with a sneer, layered voices with the same tone.  _ No wonder you have no friends. You’re a freak. A dangerous _

_ insane _

_ terrifying _

_ Freak.  _

Sherlock found his feet stubbornly frozen. It moved closer, not stepping but rather floating forwards. 

Then it was changing, tousled hair, blue-brown-grey eyes, a chocolate-stained gold ring flashing in the bright billboard lights —

_ “No!”  _ Sherlock screamed, clapped his hands over his ears, and opened his eyes.

-+-+-+-

John stumbled back, raising his hands above his head.

Sherlock shut his mouth and raised his chin, face emotionless and stony. He willed his eyes to stay dry. Strategic, practised, habit and method. Again and again.

Just like old times… 

“No,” he repeated. His head sank, mouth twisted into a grimace. Not again. Not this time.

Sherlock forced his eyes to meet the other’s. They weren’t angry. They weren’t discriminating. 

John’s eyes softened even more, and he twiddled his fingers, shuffled on his feet. 

Not this time, Sherlock thought.

His will dissolved. The wave swept over him, and this time he didn’t bother fighting it. His eyes burned.

“Sorry,” Sherlock said, clearly and articulating both syllables sharply. “I’m sorry. Sorry.” He smiled. “I’m a mess, aren’t I? You’re right.”

This time it was John’s turn to say no. _ “I’m  _ sorry,” he repeated back. “I was angry. I lashed out. I’m sorry,” he said again. “You’re not weird.” 

Then his eyes turned thoughtful. 

“Actually , you are. Sherlock Holmes, you are the most  _ different _ , the strangest and weirdest anomaly, I have ever met.” 

Sherlock marvelled, because John had somehow managed to metamorphosis those poisonous words into a brilliant compliment. He brushed a tear from his cheek and studied it curiously. 

“You are right on one thing,” he said quietly. “I don’t have friends.”

John’s eyes widened and he opened his mouth to object, but Sherlock cut him off, took a mental deep breath, and spoke. 

“Just the one.”

John abruptly raised a hand and pressed it to his smile. “Aww,” he murmured.

Then he took on a more hesitant, caring look. He very softly put his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders. 

“Is this okay?” he asked quietly.

Sherlock could only nod as John smiled wider, relieved, and pulled him into the first hug he’s had for

_ (so, so) _

long.


	19. Your Worst Nightmare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick warning: this chapter's timeline is a bit confusing, so I **bolded** the events that happened in the past (think around september).

Solely running on autopilot, Sherlock tightens his hand on John’s jumper and squishes closer. The tears keep falling. He smushes his face into John’s shoulder and forcefully muffle his noises.

It’s been so long.

-+-+-+-

“Sherlock,” John says. Sherlock feels the rumble of his voice against himself and closes his eyes.

His name is spoken again, gentle but more persistent. “I gotta get back to class.”

For a moment, his arms automatically tighten, and a part of Sherlock is disgusted at how _desperate_ that is.

The haze around his mind dissipates a bit.

“Come on, Sherlock,” John says again, gently, now with a tinge of regret.

_Regret?_

With that, the haze is gone, and suddenly Sherlock’s mind is in a whirl.

Was John Watson regretful of offering such means of affection? Was he uncomfortable?

Suddenly he’s panicking, because it’s _not_ different this time; it’s the same, the same thing over and over, he’s gone too far, much too far, revealed too much, and now John’s uncomfortable and contrite and just, probably, really wants to leave and never see him, the weird clingy wannabe, ever again.

With that thought, the cracks on the wall around his heart start to mend. The calculator mind takes over, and he smothers the pain and buries it away.

He draws his arms back and moves away, looks away.

“My apologies,” he says mildly, willing his face to cool down.

John’s face is slightly flushed, but he’s frowning. “For what?”

“I let myself go. I’m sorry. You must be—” he quickly shakes his head.

He wants to tell John, he wants it so badly. He wants to hug him again, to spill his secrets into his ear, to talk and joke and laugh, like they did before. Before Sherlock messed up.

To have a friend.

 _A friend,_ a voice echos. Like the other _friends?_

Sherlock flinches, and hardens. He digs his nails into his palm and looks over to John, eyes steeled. His mask back on.

“Leave if you wish. I won’t follow you around anymore. This won’t happen again.”

He can’t do this right now. Not with whatever’s going on in his mind.

The first emotion John shows is surprise, then anger, and he raises a hand, to punch him, Sherlock assumes—he really wouldn’t blame him, he almost wishes it to happen—but it then drains, and John’s silent, worn, and miserable.

Sherlock furrows his brow, then laughs bitterly. Jesus, this was harder than Mycroft’s cases.

“Well?” Sherlock raises his head to the door. “Potions, if I’m not mistaken.”

_Please leave—I won’t be able to last much longer._

John stands up, awkwardly untangles his hair (Sherlock’s fingers twitch despite himself) and heads towards the door.

“Guess that’s it, eh?” he says quietly, mockingly. “Back to the safety of being alone?”

Sherlock never had to try harder to keep his face emotionless. “Alone protects me.”

“No.” John gives him a smile so complex that Sherlock wants to take a picture of it and decipher all the emotions.

“Friends protect you.”

The approval from Sherlock’s calculator mind is still there, but it’s slowly being overpowered by a new voice, one that Sherlock hadn’t heard in ages. Kind and lilting and soft. Loving. But mournful and bitter.

And he does something that he’s only done single digits of. Sherlock shoves away his entire thought process, every bit of it, and simply watches and listens as John’s slumped shoulders and heavy footsteps fade away.

-+-+-+-

**John eyes the strange box in front of the classroom, taps his fingers, and anxiously waits for the lesson to begin. The chatter of students fill the room. John rests his head on his desk and lazer-eyes the professor.**

**It wasn’t like he had no friends in these fourth-year classes—when you share half your classes with the same people, it doesn’t matter if they’re a year younger.**

**But damn, it was hard. It wasn’t even October yet, but John already knew. They already have people they’ve known for years and suddenly there’s an awkward older guy who’s completely new and a total idiot and is constantly accompanied by the infamous Sherlock Holmes? No, thank you!**

**I mean, he’s not on bad terms per se, but it wasn’t like any of them were tripping over themselves to talk to him. Except for the ones who were dared, who would come up to him snickering and fidgeting and asking him if he and Sherlock were “a thing”.**

**John looks up as, finally, the professor stands up from his desk. He walks over to the weird box thing, places a hand on a hinge on the front of it, and turns to face the class.**

**“Can any of you guess what this is?,” he says lightly.**

**“… a boggart?” he hears a girl whisper. After a nod from the professor, more murmurs of nervousness began to travel through the room, and despite not knowing what it was, John couldn’t help but feel the same.**

**“Yes, it’s a boggart. This is review for most of you—” the professor caught John’s eye and gave him a sympathetic look (John’s lips tightened; he didn’t want any sympathy, he _would_ catch up) before continuing to speak.**

**“Can someone give me a quick summary of a boggart?” the professor picks a ramrod straight hand-up. “Chelsea?”**

**“A boggart is an amortal shape-shifting non-being that takes on the form of the viewer's worst fear,” the girl recites with a slight quiver in her voice.**

**John stiffens and frowns. It seemed like each explanation he ever got about magic, simply resulted in even more questions.**

**“Good,” the professor says with a smile. “And the banishing spell?”**

**_“Riddikulus.”_ **

**_“That’s ridiculous!”_ John blurted, grinning.**

**“I’m sorry, Watson?”**

**“Oh, um, sorry professor,” John quickly apologised. Then a question popped up into his mind.**

**“But how does the boggart know our absolute worst fear?” his grin fades into a thoughtful look and he clicks his tongue. “I’m sure I have more than one fear. I’m sure _everyone_ does.”**

**“The boggart simply cycles through them at random. Sometimes a recent event or incident can affect your fears, and thus the boggart—your worst fear—would change.”**

**John was still not satisfied. “What if you’re afraid of, say, death? What would you see? What if you’re afraid of something noncorporeal?”**

**Okay, he’ll admit it, John was starting to become cocky, but really, there was a part of him that just couldn’t understand. John always had a nagging thought that wizards didn’t have much logic, and he didn’t blame them—everything he’d learnt since september took “magic and mayhem” to a whole new level.**

**One friday free period, a determined John had rained upon poor Mike so many accusations about magic and science, that Mike had uttered a noise of exasperation, thrown up his arms, and yelled,**

**_Bloody hell, John, I don’t know! Why do you use_ why-phy _every single day? Why do you use… pencils and erasers? It just works. You just gotta roll with it._**

**Just roll with it, John thinks, and blows a raspberry. “Sorry, professor. Forget it.”**

**God, he needed to stop rambling. He couldn’t help it! He gets nervous. He cracks bad jokes. He rambles on and on and on.**

**“Alright, then. Well, class, we’ll take turns coming up and looking directly at the boggart,” the professor continued, “and casting the spell. If you do not wish to come up…” he smirked. “Too bad. You gotta face your fears; O.W.L’s are next year—and even sooner for some of us.”**

**John squirmed as a couple heads turned.**

**“Alright! We’ve wasted enough time, let’s begin!”**

**_Well he’s certainly passive-aggressive._ **

**-+-+-+-**

**A spider with red beady eyes loomed over a pale raven-haired boy. John looked at the spider and made a slight face, remembering Peeves (gosh, his scalp sure felt itchy all of a sudden) but didn’t really move.**

**The boy in the front of the classroom, on the other hand, stood frozen in place, eyes fixated on the hairy insect, knees knocking together.**

**“Come on,” John heard someone whisper.**

**A clatter as a wand slipped from the wizard’s lax fingers.**

**The professor frowned.**

**Without thinking, John cupped his hands around his mouth.**

**“Yeah, come on!” he shouted.**

**The boy whipped around, staring at John, bewildered. More heads turned, furrowed eyebrows and worried looks, but John kept at it, hollering like an utter buffoon.**

**“It’s a fricken boggart, dude! Pick up your wand and, uh, ridiculous!”**

**The professor’s expression was pure dismay.**

**Whatever, John thought, and clapped his hands twice together.**

**“Kill that dumb spider!” he yelled.**

**The boy blinked, turned back to the still, stoic spider (who frankly seemed just as flummoxed), and then back to John. Suddenly, he smiled weakly.**

**“You betcha.” He winked, picked up the wand, and cast the charm.**

**The spider abruptly stopped, spasmed, and became surrounded by an entire cake.**

**“Wow, _”_ John said, shaking his head. “So much better than a stripper.”**

**He expected a dead silence, the usual response to his muggle inside jokes, but this time, in the background, someone laughed.**

**Turning to the source of laughter, John’s eyes caught a girl in the back, and a smile spread to his face. “Hey, I beat you in Mario Kart!” he yelled.**

**“I crushed you in DDR,” she retorted, and grinned.**

**“Get a room!” someone shouted.**

**The girl rolled her green eyes and smiled. “Strange how some sayings stay and others don’t, eh?”**

**Before John could say anything more, the professor interrupted, placing a hand on John’s shoulder and sitting him back down (he couldn’t even remember standing up). “John Watson, I have no idea what you two were on about just then, but we must continue with my lesson. And, unfortunately, I must also inform you that it is against the rules to provide help to a classmate. There won’t be someone to cheer them on during the tests, you know.”**

**John was exuberant. A fellow MC! In his class! _That’s so cool,_ he thinks, not really knowing why that was cool, but enjoying it nevertheless, because, as his parents drilled into his mind, he was making a difference, leaving a footprint, yada yada yada.**

**“John?”**

**Snapping out of his zone-out, John blinks and focuses on the professor’s face, inches from his and looking very worried.**

**“Uh, sorry, professor,” he said mildly, not really sorry, not really having listened to a word he had said. He tried for a meek little smile.**

**The professor stared at John for a long time. John became increasingly uncomfortable.**

**Finally, the professor sighed, massaged his forehead, and patted John on the shoulder. “You’re a strange one,” he said simply, and moved on.**

**John purses his lips and frowns for a second before settling into a smile.**

**“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he murmurs, and watched as the students continued to face their worst nightmare, one by one.**

-+-+-+-

“Excuse me, professor.” Peeking his head in, John knocks on the door while simultaneously swinging it open.

The professor looks up from grading papers (or, parchment) and frowns, surprised. “Er, hello, Mr. Watson.”

Then, he took a closer look, and his frown deepens.

“Are you alright?”

This John Watson certainly didn’t seem like the one in his class. The quirky, humourous class clown now entered with slumped shoulders, heavy steps, and puffy eyes _._

Fidgeting on his feet, John fingers his sweater sleeve and gulps, looking away.

“I was wondering if,” he rushes out in one breath, “if I could see the boggart again?”

“Oh? Why? You did quite well, John, in fact, very well.”

Fear of failing his O.W.L.’s, the professor recalled. The blond-headed boy desperately shouting spells and reciting potion ingredients to no avail. Quite a nice worst fear, if one could say that.

“No, not that,” John waves him off impatiently, “it’s… a test of sorts. Like the stuff I asked you a couple weeks ago. An experiment. I just need to see it again—preferably alone. Please?”

“You can’t do it alone,” is the first thing he responds with.

John gapes a bit. “Why?”

“You cannot,” comes the steely response.

John glared. “I’m fine, professor, really.”

The professor looked back at him coolly. He didn’t know what was going on, but this John Watson at the moment certainly didn’t seem “fine”.

He wasn’t stupid, he knew something had happened. John was going to test his worst fear, and you bet it wasn’t going to be failing his O.W.L.’s this time. So:

“No.”

John gritted his teeth and paced around several times, before he sucked in a breath, shut his eyes briefly, and nodded. “Okay, fine. Can I see it now?”

The professor was growing increasingly concerned, but didn’t push it. He got up reluctantly, opened a closet, and took out the box.

“Remember the spell,” he warned as John took a deep breath and seemed to pale, seemed to be having second thoughts. “And if anything happens, I’m intervening.”

“Figured as much,” John muttered, squaring his shoulders.

The professor opened the hatch and released the boggart.

John sucked in a sharp breath and staggered back, blinking hard. The professor almost did the same as he gawped at the boggart—at Sherlock Holmes.

-+-+-+-

_“This won’t happen again. I was too rash, too wild.”_

John knuckles are white around his wand. No, no, not this, please no—

“You really thought so, you really hoped, didn’t you? John Watson, the boy who befriended Sherlock Holmes. Your stupidity must be more potent than I thought. You’re not even my _friend,_ not even a _companion_ —I was using you, John, you really couldn’t see that? You’re so clueless. Then again, that’s why I chose you. You didn’t even have the slightest suspicion. I just wanted an alibi, someone to blame things on. You were perfect.”

Sherlock Holmes smiled brightly. “But it’s gone too far. It won’t happen again. Alone protects me, better than you could ever do.”

Silent, miserable tears.

_“Riddikulus!”_

John hadn’t said a word, doesn’t even glance at the professor (no doubt the spell caster). He remains silent, simply watching, as Sherlock tripped, fell, and wore a large veiled hat upon his curls.

He peered at John through the translucent veil and smiles.

“Oh, you poor thing. You had no idea. You’re the best pawn I’ve ever used.”

And John snaps; arm lashing out, ripping the veil, and he’s choking back sobs and throwing himself at the figure; damn Sherlock Holmes who doesn’t move, doesn’t even get hurt, doesn’t want _anyone,_ until suddenly it’s gone, and the box closes with a loud slam, and he’s left collapsed on the floor, tears streaking his face.

-+-+-+-

“John. John, are you alright?” A firm but gentle hand is tugging at his arm. “C’mon. Atta boy.”

John gets up. His legs are shaking but he ignores the professor’s arm as he stumbles over to the door.

Just before he leaves, he casts a glance back at the professor, a plea clear in his eyes.

The professor smiles sadly and puts a finger to his lips.

More tears threaten to overflow. John nods, turns, and flees.


	20. Blind Men and an Elephant

John was Sherlocked.

He didn’t even know what that meant. Just that he caught Mike Stamford chuckling to himself, just smirks and coos from Irene Adler, just Molly Hooper’s bitter smile.

_ Sherlocked _ . It could bear quite a multitude of meanings, he imagined.

Surprisingly, he didn’t bring it up until the weekend. And it was an accident.

Pondering over the strange looks he’d gotten when he walked in the room of requirement, and wondering whether or not they were of relation to Sherlock, John absentmindedly sucked on a sour key as he half-heartedly watched the screen.

“Sherlocked,” he mused.

A scream pierced through the sudden silence.

A girl picked up the remote and paused the movie.

“Six months!” she muttered. “Damn it.”

She sighed ruefully, rummaged in her pocket, and handed to another girl a silver coin: a Sickle, John remembered.

A couple more people did the same, mumbling under their breaths.

Hold on…

“Woah, woah, woah, wait. You’ve been  _ betting _ on me and Sherlock?”

“No!” someone blurted out quickly. Then, he made an apologetic face. “I mean… yes, but it’s not just with Sherlock!”

The wizard looked at an increasingly baffled John. “It’s just… when it comes to Sherlock, we do it more in public, I guess.” He winced. “What I’m saying is, we…” he stopped talking and looked at John helplessly.

John smiled ruefully, before sighing, setting back into the armchair, and speaking.

“Okay,” he said quietly, “so can anyone tell me what  _ Sherlocked  _ means?”

A beat.

“You don’t know?”

_ “No, I know what it means,” _ John said, exasperated.

“Um, okay, so, er,” someone started, and another continued.

“It’s basically getting dumped _.” _

“I’m sorry?”

“Like, you know? You give him a friendly hair ruffle and suddenly he disappears. Literally.”

“You joke around a bit, and now he won’t even look at you.”

“A hug, and suddenly I’m a complete stranger.”

Wait.

John squinted at the people who spoke.

“You’re all friends with Sherlock?”

Someone snorted.

_ “Was.  _ Join the club.”

“You think you’re the only one’s who’s ever talked to him?.”

The boy who just spoke turned to John, and raised his palms towards him. “I’m just saying, Sherlock’s weird”—John opened his mouth, but he was cut off. “I’m not complimenting him, and it’s not a ‘bad’ thing to say—I’m being realistic is all. Anderson’s hired so many therapists we’ve begun to categorise  _ them,  _ and none of _ them  _ could figure it out. So, hear me out. Sherlock’s just weird. I bet they would’ve named his, well, condition, I guess, after Sherlock himself, but frankly, it would be useless—he’s the only one with it.”

“Oh,” was all John managed to say.

“Sorry, off on a tangent there. All I’m saying is that he gets really paranoid. We’ve all been friends with him at one point or another, but it’s just one little thing, and he gets so deranged and just… leaves, I guess. I’m guessing it’s something with his family,” he said with a shrug. “But none of us got much outta him. You seemed to be, forgive the cliche, ‘the one’. He actually seemed happy for once. But I guess that’s not true.”

For once, no one fought for the remote. They fell into a silence, but the questions lay palpable. 

John’s will faltered a bit, knowing this was immoral in a way, them, discussing this like a game.

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” he muttered, breaking the silence. “It’s not right.”

“Here we go,” someone muttered. 

“Did any of you even try to understand how he feels? You said it yourself—Sherlock’s weird. So he’s running away from friends, but why? Did anyone try to find out what he thinks?”

A boy stood up. 

“He likes attention, John! He  _ thrives  _ off it. He  _ lives  _ from it. He plays you, and then he gets bored and tosses you away.”

John’s mouth was open, and no words came. He stepped off the table, feeling a sting in his eyes. 

“Oh, and you wanna know why Charles hates you? He was Sherlocked in August.”

-+-+-+-

He couldn’t believe it. He should believe it. Obviously he couldn’t have been the only friend Sherlock’s had. Obviously Sherlock’s had previous buddies. Obviously he’s pushed away all of them.

But, come on! John refused to accept it. There must be something else.

“There isn’t,” he hissed quietly, sinking down along a wall, not even caring if it was solid or not.

John pressed his hands into his head, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. 

“Come on,” he murmured, “think this out.”

So Sherlock had previous friends. He’d “broken up” with them, a.k.a. Sherlocked, and then just pranced right along and found another poor soul to befriend.

_ That wasn’t so bad… for Sherlock, I guess? _

Never had John wanted to be able to read minds so much. To take a look inside Sherlock, find out what was going on inside that head. Was Sherlock really just taking friends like pawns? Does he just not understand typical human behaviour, at all? Did he think other people didn’t like him (well, that much is true for some)?

John groaned. This was harder than casting a patronus. No wonder Sherlock liked being alone—it was so much easier than…whatever this was.

He sighed, got up, and returned to his dorm.

-+-+-+-

After a good night’s (un)rest, John convinced himself he was making this far too complicated than it was.

Sherlock was different. He was sheltered, confused, and closed off. If he was convinced that pushing away people who cared about him was the correct way to live, fine.

He’ll do what Sherlock wishes him to do, and if that’s for him to leave him alone? Fine.

-+-+-+-

He didn’t speak to him.

He fought off the feelings, the words at the tip of his tongue. 

He’d force his eyes away from him, stop his frantic whirring mind, bury his yearning.

He made himself move on.

And he found that he couldn’t.

Sherlock laughed without humour and pressed his thumbs into his temples. He had done this before, countless times. Who’d knew it all came down to John Watson?

-+-+-+-

“Morning,” John said brightly as he walked down the halls.

Charles’s eyes were steely gray. “John,” he said curtly, nodding in acknowledgement.

Tilting his head, John looked to his side, frowning, weighing his pros and cons. Then, suddenly, he turned around and quickly caught up.

“Could I speak to you?” he rushed out, avoiding the other’s distasteful gaze. He shifted his weight from one foot to another, incredibly hesitant, but feeling like he had no choice. After all, he convinced himself, Charles practically offered it.

“It’s about Sherlock.”

“I know,” Charles said coolly. “Obviously.”

John glared a bit, but didn’t say anything on it. Instead he spread his hands out helplessly, almost a plead.

“I’m sure you know,” he said nervously, licking his lips, “but I’ve been, as you supposedly call it,  _ ‘Sherlocked’.” _

Charles snorted. “That word came from a group of Sherlock’s most desperate, bitter, heartbroken ex-friends.” He smirked. “I suppose it’s appropriate you use it.”

Ouch.

John’s laugh came out as a weak chuckle. “I suppose it is,” he said, quiet enough for the other not to hear.

Apparently it wasn’t.

Charles’s face changed, and he leaned in, piqued. 

“That bad? What’d he do?”

“From what I got from everyone else, the usual.”

Charles rolled his grey eyes. “Please. Nothing’s ever  _ the usual  _ when it comes to him.”

Managing a smile, John shrugged. “I’m not sure myself, to be honest. Apparently hugs and comfort is a taboo in his world.”

Humming with thought, Charles tapped his chin. “No, Sherlock’s not against intimacy—actually, he craves it. It’s not the affection he fears, it’s his want for it. He has this strange delusion that he needs to be ‘alone’, that, given the chance, everyone will turn against him. That everyone hates him.” 

John made a noise in his throat. “But I don’t even know what I did,” he said, not caring how childish he sounded.

“No one does.” Charles sighed, and then nodded to John. “I’ve got Astronomy.”

“Me, too.”

He tilted his head to the side. “C’mon, then.”

They walked together, but even as their conversation changed to quidditch, John couldn’t stop thinking about what Charles had said. 

He didn’t mean to disrupt Sherlock’s privacy. He just didn’t realise how fragile their bond was until it was broken.

John absentmindedly responded to a question from Charles. 

It was so horrible, so selfish, and he knew it, but, he wished the person walking beside him was someone else. Who made dry comments and quick notes of quirky things no one but them would notice, the only person who could make him more confused than his Potions professor.

After everything he’s heard about Sherlock Holmes, after everything he’s done, John still wanted him.

He gritted his teeth and chased those thoughts into a dark corner of his mind. 

Suddenly, regaining his senses, he looked around. This wasn’t the astronomy tower. This was more like an enclosed  _ box.  _

John’s pulse skyrocketed. He turned around, but before he could do anything else, he heard a word he didn’t know, and all of a sudden he felt as if he was stone. He watched helplessly as his wand drew itself from his robe and floated into the other’s grasp.

“Charles Milverton, I swear to god…” 

The other wizard looked at John, and smiled. “Sorry, Watson. Consider this payback for ratting me on the ring.”

John made an indignant noise. “That was Sherlock!”

Charles shrugged. “Well, I can’t seem to get back at him, eh?” 

John proceeded to list off every profanity he knew. (Quite a lot.)

After about three seconds of this, another word was spoken along with his, and his mouth was suddenly unable to produce any sound. 

Charles raised an arm. The wand he was holding wasn’t his own.

John’s wand seemed to protest in the other wizard’s hand.

_ “Sectumsempra!” _

Several things happened, but John was too preoccupied to notice much.

It was like an invisible blade, one that somehow cut in more than one place, had slashed across and all over his body. Something warm and red trickled over his eyes, forcing his eyes closed. He wanted to shake from the pain, but the spell prevented him from making any movement, and somehow that was worse.

He felt lightheaded as more blood trailed out of his body.

But right before the darkness enveloped him, he suddenly collapsed onto the floor.

He realised this, with some delirium, and immediately tried to sit up. Bad move. He sprawled back onto the floor, in more pain than before

There was a hand on his face, lightly brushing his hair; the sudden flare of hurt quickly faded into nothing. More words, quieter and subdued, too faint to make out. But John was too far gone to care much about any of it. Couldn’t he just pass out in peace? 

-+-+-+-

Charles Milverton cast an invisibility charm with John’s wand, threw it down beside its bleeding owner, and ran away. The last thing he saw was a flash of a new figure, who, immediately upon appearing, bent down over an unconscious John. Good, good.

As he approached the Astronomy tower, he began to slow down, pressing a hand over his pounding heart.

He had felt so much pity. Walking down the halls with John, hearing him speak so half-heartedly, his mind clearly someplace else. 

A faint thought had sprung into his mind, which bloomed into an idea.

There were rumours that, after “breaking up” with someone, Sherlock would follow them around. Just for a couple days, keeping track of what they were doing. Yes, creepy, but also incredibly sad, and then again it was Sherlock.

Sherlock had the same astronomy class. 

So Charles had drawn John away, relying on the boy’s lack of observant skills and taking advantage of his wandering mind. Hoping Sherlock would notice, and follow. 

While continuing the one-sided conversation, Charles had simultaneously took a casual glance back. 

There was a very, very faint ripple in the air. It immediately disappeared upon his searching, but that was enough.

Charles had led John to a hidden room. He had cast a spell upon it, so that no one could enter—not even Sherlock—until he left. 

And then he had tortured him.

And it worked. Charles very well knew who entered the room upon his departure. He also knew that, despite everything, Sherlock was incredibly lonely, and, despite how adamantly he would deny it, Charles knew enough to know that, even after just a couple days, Sherlock missed John, more than he had anyone. He didn’t push John away because he wanted to, but because he thought John did.

This would be the perfect redemption. Maybe it would finally be enough for Sherlock to realise that, maybe, pushing everyone away doesn’t help anyone. 

Because despite how much of a sociopath he was, Sherlock still deserved to feel happiness, and John gave him that. And they made too good of a pair to let that all go to waste.

Charles had a motive, a red herring. Good enough to convince John it was Sherlock who saved him from the revenge-hungry maniac. Good enough for Sherlock to realise John wasn’t completely disgusted and does not hate him, surprisingly. 

But even if it worked, in the end of every possible conclusion Sherlock may come to, Charles had still tortured John with his own wand.

Charles groaned and ran a hand through his hair. He had always been a bit of a matchmaker. Seemed he would be willing to risk his own safety, just to get two idiots to get together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was pure self-indulgent writing. I am so sorry if it's confusing because honestly it is. But I didn't want Milverton to be the pure villain, so here we are.  
> 


	21. Lick

“I’m sorry,” was the first thing John heard.

Groaning as the throbbing in his head morphed into a pounding, he started to get up, but a hand pushed him back down again. He really couldn’t complain.

Attempting to speak, John managed a croak before quickly dwindling into a fit of coughing. Someone handed him a glass, and he downed the water with relish. Immediately after, it disappeared from his hands.

John rolled onto his side, rested his cheek under his hands, and squinted up curiously at the cross-legged figure he was now aware of. He lay there on the floor, staring up at Sherlock Holmes, wondering what the hell had happened.

“It’ll come back in a second.” Sherlock offered an empty smile.

Then, his eyes took on a sudden scrutiny. He picked up his wand, which was on his lap, and lightly tapped it on the back of John’s head.

“Couldn’t reach it from your previous position,” he explained.

“Reach what?”

Sherlock sighed, laced his fingers together, and leaned down towards John.

“The dried blood from when Charles tortured you,” he stated plainly, with a bit of a frustrated glare, waiting as the recollection flooded in.

 _“Oh,”_ John said quietly, but with emphasis. _“Right.”_ He clicked his tongue, and smiled with a bit of a disorientated amusement.  “Well, what’s done is done. Now what?”

Sherlock flicked a strand of John’s hair away from his face, eyes exasperated, but soft.

It then quickly changed to confusion, and he immediately drew his hand away, as if surprised at his own action. He shut his eyes briefly before speaking.

“John. You’re—” something caught in Sherlock’s throat but he pushed on, words coming out faster—

“You were my best friend, _at the time,_ as you have discovered. I can only assume Charles had been driven by petty vindictiveness from some previous case, and decided you were the best option in order to hurt me.”

There was a pause.

“To hurt _you_?” John finally said, softly but with malice. “I’m the one who had invisible knives all over me; you’re telling me it’s all about you again?”

Sherlock inhaled sharply, eyes wide. “I—” whatever words came next were lost.

John sighed and looked away. “You know what,” he muttered, “you did save me. So—just—just move on.”

Sherlock nodded briskly, face tense and relieved.

“I am sorry about the injuries. You should go only about eighty five percent in quidditch.”

A nod.

“Charles won’t hurt you again,” Sherlock declared.

A slower nod, with a small smile.

“And—I brought this onto you. If I hadn’t, if we weren’t, friends, this wouldn’t’ve happened. I’m sorry.”

No nod.

Sherlock’s eyes were almost pleading. John deliriously remembered him commenting on them an eternity ago. Alien eyes, was that what he had called them? They seemed much more human now.

“John. Charles did this because of me. I know I was blunt before, ending our friendship, but now we’re even. It’s best if we just continue to avoid each other.”

-+-+-+-

And then Sherlock gave John a smile to hide the pain.

It was a pain he’s felt many times before, but this time? Strangely sharper than the others, though not unbearable. He’d even clock it up to second on the list. (No pain would ever beat the first.)

But it was something he was willing to handle.

Because it would just be like the others.

If six year old Sherlock hadn’t spoken to that little blond-haired blue-eyed girl who had seemed so nice, he wouldn’t’ve seen her abruptly lean in, her soft lips gently resting onto his, and he wouldn’t’ve seen her immediately upon contact whip her face away as if stung, and saunter back to Thomas, and Thomas’s awestruck _Merlin, Steph, you actually did it, I can’t believe you actually did it, that’s insane,_ and he wouldn’t’ve seen Stephanie’s proud smile as she took Tommy’s hand and they walked away.

She had cast Sherlock an apology with her eyes, but Sherlock didn’t see it through his tears.

Because if Sherlock hadn’t been so desperate to have a friend last summer, he wouldn’t’ve found Charles Milverton, he wouldn’t’ve whispered things into his ear, desperate murmurs about his parents and empty bottles. He wouldn’t’ve heard Charles tell those exact things to Irene Adler. He wouldn’t’ve spilled in, spitting his betrayal, _you promised you wouldn’t tell, I’m done, I’m gone_.

Because…

Because every time, something happens.

Sherlock had no doubt that John Watson had every possibility of spilling his secrets or doing this for a dare or something of the sort (except, John’s family was in good financial position, and Sherlock did not foresee anything in the future that would encourage John into getting information from Mycroft, so why would he, but then again, he didn’t quite understand human motives, perhaps he would be wrong, but it didn’t really matter now, did it?).

_But if so, why didn’t he leave before? Six months, Holmes! Why did he drag it on for so long?? What if he’s not using you as a prank, bet, or dare? What if he just… wants to be friends?_

How he wished those thoughts were true.

But even if they were, even if, by some ludicrous chance, it was true, it would just be further proof.

 _Sectumsempra, Sherlock, bloodied and battered, sprawled across the floor, because of_ you, _remember that!_

But—

 _But you’re too drained of willpower? To end this for both of you? You’re too desperate, too yearning, too weak? You’re in too deep, should’ve known it and ended it from the start_ —

Oh, had he known the consequences of Charles discovering how much he cared.

He would never have done this, Sherlock wouldn’t’ve seen John and Charles take the wrong turn and he wouldn’t’ve sprinted to follow, too panicked to apparate, and pounded at that stupid door that wouldn’t open until Charles dashed away, and he wouldn’t’ve been too busy being completely horrified at John’s wounds to murder Charles, and John wouldn’t be hurt.

And even still, he didn’t understand. Why would Charles do this?

Was it because Sherlock ended their friendship, and he wanted to get revenge? But it was Charles who spilled Sherlock’s secrets.

Was it because Sherlock had correctly identified Charles as the stealer of Anderson’s ring? But surely he knew Sherlock would figure that out, it was so obvious!

Was it because Milverton was a vindictive brat and decided hurting John would be a good way to hurt Sherlock?

That was the line of reasoning that Sherlock decided to settle on.

And the scariest part was that it had worked. (the voice was still shouting at him, don’t get attached, don’t do it, don’t you dare)

The thing was, all of those possible motives had something in common: they were all, still, because of Sherlock. No matter what, it was still Sherlock who had gotten John into all this.

He couldn’t risk John’s safety more than he already had, hell; more than he had _before_ this.

(There was another, before John, also hurt. But much, much worse. Sherlock wouldn’t let himself think of it.)

So he couldn’t. Not just for his sake, not just to avoid mock or rumours or being used. Sherlock could manipulate, yes, he could weave his words, maybe even inflict pain, to get what he wanted.

But when it was a friend, and if they had gotten hurt because of his actions—that he couldn’t handle.

That became his mantra. Alone protects him.

-+-+-+-

Suddenly, piercing through the argument, a spear from reality was driven into the hazy battlefield of his thoughts. _John._

“How many times have you said that before?”

That, now, that was a real voice, John Watson in front of him (and yet somehow so far away) but another voice, this soft lilting sigh that was not real, merely a voice in Sherlock’s mind, took it on, once a harmonious blend of many, zeroing in on one, until Sherlock was, continuing to, listening to John—only this time, it was in his head.

(But why should that mean it’s not real?)

 _You know what I think, Sherlock? I think you’re being an irrational prick. I can choose my friends myself. I’m a bloody Gryffindor, I thrive in danger for god’s sake; I think you should let_ me _decide whether or not it’s too much for me to handle._

The realisation came quick and Sherlock abruptly found himself back in the secret room, face to face with John, who had just finished speaking.

Sherlock looked at John and cocked his head. _Hmm._

Maybe he could give this a shot.

-+-+-+-

_"It's best if we just continue to avoid each other."_

And then Sherlock gave John such a pleased smile he wanted to punch it right off his face.

John stared and glared and contemplated his decisions, trying to think of a response that wouldn’t be just a string of swears. (Meanwhile, unbeknownst to John, Sherlock went through a battle of reasoning in his mind, began an argument that John would very soon conclude, and come to a radically off-the-beaten-path decision.)

Drawing in a breath, John spoke curtly, coldly.

“How many times have you said that before?”

Sherlock’s eyes sharpened suddenly, but at the same time it seemed he was not concentrating on reality—he seemed to be processing John’s words with a steady vigor, but it was like he was someplace else, somewhere within his mind.

John was so startled by this, he hesitated for a brief second—and that seemed to be enough.

Sherlock’s eyes focused back to reality onto John. He tilted his head, and pressed his lips together with thought.

“Well? Go on.” John snapped irritably. “Because, however unsurprising it is, I can’t help but think you’ve done this to all your ‘ex-friends’, and everyone who cares about you.”

Sherlock blinked a couple more times.

“John—”

“You think you’re so noble and heroic and _deep_ , isolating yourself to ‘protect’ or something—”

“John—”

“Frankly, I don’t even know _what_ you’re thinking—”

 _“John_ —”

“I just don’t get it! Is it because of me?!”

_“John. Hamish. Watson!”_

John immediately shut up, because that was a _remarkable_ impression of his father.

“Yes?” he said automatically, rubbing his eyes that he hadn’t even noticed were damp until now.

Sherlock suddenly seemed hesitant, but set his jaw and forced their eyes to meet. He spoke slowly, deliberately, carefully.

“Isolation does protects me, and others. That is a statement I will never deny. However, I have come to a conclusion, and I am about to make a decision that part of me is currently disowning me for even thinking of doing, but I have decided it is worth a try, and I will find it much appreciated if you listen.”

John stared for a full three seconds before replying with,

“For fuck’s sake, Sherlock, talk like a normal teenager for once.”

Silence. Sherlock blinked multiple times. Again.

Then he completely exploded in a fit of laughter.

John offence slowly descended into irrepressible giggles, which then ascended into a hysteria.

“John,” Sherlock gasped out after a while where all they needed was to look at each other before their laughter would start with a new force again, “I’m sorry, but I really don’t think I’m a normal teenager.”

John tried to respond, but couldn’t speak.

“Now, do you want to hear my radically irrational decision that goes against my entire life mantra or not?”

Still trying to ward off lingering giggles, John took a deep breath, and smiled.

 _“The answer is so obvious you must be a complete imbecile not to have predicted already,”_ he drawled, in a voice that could only best be described as… _slimy,_ trying his best to look condescending when Sherlock was a head taller.

“That is the most inaccurate impression of me I have seen in my life.”

“That is the most inaccurate impression of me I have seen in my life.”

“Are we really going to do this?”

“Are we—”

Sherlock clapped his hand over John’s mouth.

John smirked under his palm.

Sherlock immediately yanked his hand away with a shriek of disgust. He gawped at John whilst furiously wiping his hand on his robe.

“You _licked_ me _,”_ he said incredulously.

“Yes, Holmes, an excellent deduction,” John said without not missing a beat.

_“You licked me!”_

“Oh, now you’re repeating yourself? I thought that was, what was it again? a clear sign that someone is missing a few brain cells?”

Sherlock couldn’t even respond. He looked at John with an expression that was so satisfying, John wanted to take a picture of it and frame it on his wall.

John’s eyes twinkled with mischief. “You licked an actual shoe once to find out the last time someone’s worn it, I don’t see why you’re making such a big deal out of it right now.”

Sherlock suddenly found himself short of breath. How John had managed to evaporate the tension into utter oblivion within seconds—now that was a mystery he’d like to solve.

John’s smile turned a bit more crooked, but also, somehow, a bit more serious.

“But, yeah, I do want to hear it.”

“Oh, and also—” John looked slightly disturbed—“how do you know my middle name?”

Sherlock seemed to be quite unable to stop shaking his head.

“John Hamish Watson, you are unbelievable.”

“Ah, well, thanks.” John smiled for a second, then turned completely serious. “But actually. My middle name, Sherlock.”

“You asked me once if I had one, and after denying, I asked you, which you denied profusely and with painfully obvious avoidance of eye contact. I assumed it was something embarrassing, and therefore probably funny.” Sherlock snickered. “Your birth certificate, Hamish.”

“One, ‘birth certificate’ is a very unclear answer that only leads to more questions, and two, if you make calling me that a habit I will personally replace all your conditioner with mayonnaise.”

“The oil enriches hair.”

John swore under his breath. Then, his face lit up.

“I’ll force you to get eight hours of sleep _daily,_ including three full meals a day, without skipping classes and without any cases to solve.”

Sherlock’s face took on a look of complete revolt. John snickered, and flicked one of Sherlock’s curls.

“Joking. I’d never do that. But if you push it, I’ll have second thoughts, so keep the nicknames to yourself, ‘kay?”

“Ah.” Sherlock nodded, thinking about how that one time in fourth year he had made a complete Anti-Paralysis Potion, conjured an owl, paralysed it, and used the potion on it to prove it worked—why was it that he could do all that before anyone else in the class had even finished the potion itself, but in this current moment, when John was talking only slightly faster than normal, he simply couldn’t keep up?

“John, do you want to hear it or not?”

“What?” John looked confused for a second. “Oh! Right! Yeah, of course.”

“Oh, well.” All of a sudden Sherlock found all that earlier contemplation and arguing rather ridiculous. (But he’d never take back anything he said, so it wasn’t ridiculous, of course not, not at all.)

He quickly organised his thoughts into a more coherent order, and gave it a quick review/skim over, before taking in a breath, staring John straight into the eyes, and speaking.

“At first I wanted to stop being friends because I was afraid you’d tell my secrets, or that you were simply trying to get information of that or the other, or that you were doing this for a dare of sorts.

“But I had not denied any of which Charles had told you in September, and you had not told anyone else about my lack of denial. Add that to yesterday, in your muggle club meetup, where from the others’ behaviour I can only assume you have not told anything.

“You’re family is not in financial crises of any sort, nor are you, unless you really are trying to save up money for a jacket that is not neon orange, in which case forget it, the coat is quite insulating and you look fine in it. Information I can understand, but you haven’t exactly been discreet with your curiosity. If you’d wanted to find something out you’d’ve asked me earlier, and I will even go as far as saying I will try harder to provide it than I would with someone else.

“If this was a joke, it would surely be over by now, unless you are very, _very,_ dedicated, in which case I would be so impressed I wouldn’t even be hurt.

“The last reason was, simply, that I did not want you to be endangered. I get into more danger than a, I suppose, normal friend would. It’s very hard for me to admit this, but I still do not fully understand Charles’ motive, except that it was because of me. You know my enemies, and, after what had happened nearly an hour ago, you can see why I was so strongly convinced.

“However. You are a Gryffindor. You are a danger seeker. You have yet to back out of anything I’ve taken you on; actually, you seem to enjoy it quite a lot. So comes my decision.

“I have consistently closed myself off, for alone protects me, and I will still, and I will never, deny that. But, I have decided that there is a different option. Perhaps we can still be friends, and perhaps you will not abandon and betray me, perhaps you will not use me to your advantage, perhaps you will not get hurt, and in the scenario that you are, perhaps you have already accepted that as a risk, and perhaps I will finally have _someone,_ and, perhaps, this may be a bigger help to me than, simply, alone.”

Yet another silence. The… fourth, was it? Sherlock couldn’t quite recall.

Finally, John spoke.

“I don’t think ‘perhaps’ is a word anymore.”

Sherlock jerked his head a bit in John’s direction. He wants to say something like _I literally_ rehearsed _all that beforehand, and I_ never _do that, and_ that’s _your response?_ but humour is, after all, a defense mechanism that John often relies on, so he stayed silent.

“But, jeez, Sherlock…” John wrapped his arms around himself. “You’ve got some baggage.”

“No, I don’t.”

“It’s a saying,” John replied gently, but not bothering with a snarky comeback for once.

Sherlock was steadily becoming more and more unsure. Did he say too much? Oh, _fuck,_ he did, didn’t he? Now he’s not just a creepy clingy stalker but now also one that John knows much too much about—

“I’m sorry,” he stammered.

“What?” John’s eyes turned on him, sharp and scrutinising, then softening, going wide with worry. “Oh, no, Sherlock, I—”

“No, no, it’s fine!” Sherlock cringed at himself, since when was he so bad at lying? “I completely understand. If it makes it easier, I could erase your memory—”

John clapped a hand over Sherlock’s mouth.

“Shut up!” John’s eyes were wild, and if he looked close enough, Sherlock could see his own bewildered expression reflected in them. “I want to be friends with you! Why the hell would you think I don’t?! Don’t answer that.

“You think I hate you because you’ve dragged me into crazy things and I’ve become _that guy who’s always with Sherlock_ and because I, what, could get _hurt_?

“I _like_ exploring creepy abandoned secret passages and I _like_ being called _that guy who’s always with Sherlock_ and I _love_ it! You think everything’s about you. You didn’t do anything wrong, I won’t betray you, and the people who have are complete dickheads. I’d take this over charting constellations any day! If I get hurt, it’s because of me and my reckless stupidity, and, if it helps you sleep at night (which I really hope it does because you really need some sleep) I’ll, what, accept it as a risk for our friendship? Okay, sure! Bam, we’re friends again! Whether you like it or not.”

Sherlock’s eyes were huge, startled, and staring straight at John with utter awe.

“What?” John looked a bit confused now.

Sherlock suddenly smirked.

John screamed and yanked his hand off of Sherlock’s mouth.


	22. Prelude

“John,” Sherlock said one day, out of the blue. “What would you like for your birthday?”

After making sure doing so wouldn’t result in it exploding in his face, John stopped stirring his potion and turned to face Sherlock with a strange look.

“Erm, well,” he tilted his head, “why do you ask?”

“Why do you think?” Sherlock said impatiently. He reached over to John’s potion and stirred it for him. “Your birthday’s in three days and I haven’t the slightest clue whether any of my ideas will end with you swearing, terrified, dead, or all three.”

John slowly took his cauldron back from Sherlock. “If this was coming from anyone else, I would laugh,” he said gravely.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Well?” he demanded. “What do you want?”

“Um, well,” John stuttered a bit, “I, don’t have anything specific.” He laughed. “And you don’t usually straight-up ask what people want, you know. It’s usually more of a surprise.”

Sherlock looked stricken.

“My apologies,” he said after a short pause. “I… don’t have much experience with birthdays.”

“It doesn’t _have_ to be a surprise,” John said, feeling strangely guilty about bringing it up. “You don’t even have to get me anything,” he said, trying to make it up. “I don’t expect much from you,” he added as a joke.

“None of that is true,” Sherlock said childishly, with another one of those pouts, and retreated into a silence.

-+-+-+-

It was during breakfast the next day.

“John,” Sherlock said, with the air of someone who was about to make an ultra-important announcement (come to think of it, that was how he usually spoke anyways). “John, I am serious. I don’t have the slightest idea what to do for your birthday.”

John swallowed a bite of toast before speaking. “It’s _fine,”_ he said with a tinge of exasperation. “Honestly, just give me… ice cream, or something.”

“Really?” Curious and a bit confused, Sherlock waved his wand, and a fancy goblet of ice cream appeared in front of John. “Like this?”

“I mean…” John took the spoon and started to eat. “Sure?”

After giving John one of those long, hard looks of scrutiny, Sherlock groaned, and threaded a hand through his hair.

“Just tell me what you want.”

“I already did.” John shrugged. “Ice cream.”

“No, it’s clearly not! You’re just…” Sherlock sputtered, face turning red, “ _pitying,_ ” he spat out the word, “me, and my lack of gift-giving intuition!”

John huffed. “No, I’m not! You really could just give me ice cream. Really. Hey, how did you know my favourite flavour?” he then added, trying to change the topic.

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand. “You were looking at the hazelnut gelato in Diagon Alley.”

“Way back then?” John stared at his spoon. “You still remember that?”

“Of course,” Sherlock said plainly, as if to  _not_  to was weird.

John ate the spoonful of ice cream, then pointed the empty spoon at Sherlock.

“Sherlock, you never fail to amaze me.”

“I’m going to,” Sherlock huffed bitterly, “on your birthday.”

“For god’s sake, Sherlock.”

-+-+-+-

What if he put John’s cat _in_ the puzzle box?

No, John was very attached to Andromeda, he’d panic if he discovered her stuffed inside a box—even if it were a puzzle box.

Would he even enjoy a puzzle box? They were, after all, quite tedious and sometimes much too obvious. Sherlock could change that, of course, tweak it to the correct level of logic and skill, but puzzles weren’t a pastime John often did, if at all, would he really enjoy it? Perhaps if there were a gift inside, but he’d already gone through that.

What if he put another puzzle box inside the puzzle box?

“Oh, John’ll _hate_ that,” someone suddenly said next to him.

Sherlock rolled his parchment clean off the table, not caring if he smudged the fresh ink. He sprang up and turned around, heavily scolding himself. How did he manage not to notice? He wasn’t even in his mind palace.

“Good morning, Mike,” he said carefully, wanting to follow it up with a _so you’ve been underage drinking again I see,_ but Mike was a friend of John’s, and by extension, “his friend” (ha), and he wasn’t to treat him like “a bloody stalker slash mind reader”.

“Morning,” Mike said casually. “Where’s John?” Pretending to be casual, he wasn’t really looking for John, he would’ve seen him go to the library for extra studying, he was just making conversation (why?), was it because of, oh, right, the list.

Sherlock took out his wand, and without moving anything other than his wrist, brought the scroll up from the ground into his hands.

There was a brief silence, and Mike pointed to the floor. “You could’ve just grabbed it?”

Sherlock sighed, and didn’t acknowledge that.

“I need to be friends with you,” he stated abruptly. Because he had to, quoted from John, “at least _try”. I'm trying, John._

Frowning, Mike's gaze turned from the parchment to Sherlock. “What? We’re friends. Well, by extension.”

“Yes.”

Mike looked even more confused. _Merlin,_ Sherlock vexed.

“In having a conversation, we will approach from extension friends to at least partial friends. Add that to the fact that I—that I need—” Sherlock almost choked, for Merlin's sake—“I need your help.”

It irked Sherlock greatly, how shocked Mike looked.

“Yeah?” Mike said blankly, before nodding quickly. “Yeah! Okay. Moving to at-least-partial-friend, conversation, John’s birthday, right, okay." He raised his eyebrows and nodded to the scroll of parchment Sherlock was clutching very tightly. "I could try to help."

Oh, _fine,_ Sherlock snapped to the John voice in his head that was really very annoying, he didn’t know why he still stuck with it. He (very) reluctantly handed the list to Mike.

“John’s birthday is in two days. I would make him read this instead, but I wish for his gift to be at least a small surprise, as it seems to be the deal with birthday gifts.”

Mike nodded, not really listening, scanning the list, and by how he looked, getting increasingly disturbed.

When he finally spoke, it was with a hint of amusement and a lot of warning.

“Mate, these are all gonna take weeks—not to mention, a hospital at stand-by.”

“I could follow through with them in two days,” Sherlock said airily. “The only problem is how John will react.”

“I don’t know how to put this honestly,” Mike admitted, as he handed the scroll back to Sherlock. “But these are all way over the top."

"You know what I’m giving him?” he said suddenly, grinning.

“I’m painting a griffin on our dorm door.”

“That seems to be quite the random gift,” Sherlock commented dryly.

“Ah, so it seems,” Mike said devilishly, “but John’ll get it.”

“Get what?” Sherlock couldn’t think of any interactions John had had with griffins.

“You’ll see,” Mike sang happily. “Anyways, all'm saying is, birthdays aren’t meant to be huge. Give him something small, but thoughtful.”

“I’m having trouble with both of those factors,” Sherlock snapped.

Mike hummed, and shrugged, and all of a sudden, an idea bloomed in Sherlock’s mind.

“We’ve just had a conversation, along with jokes, and advice.”

Mike frowned. “Yes?”

Sherlock leaned closer with a look of intense concentration. “Would telling John we’re friends be a small and thoughtful gift?”

“Um,” Mike stammered. “That’s kinda weird.” He made a face, and then tried to elaborate on that.

“Being friends isn’t something you should make into a gift, like, if you’re only friends because it’ll make someone else happy, that's not really how friends work. It’s like you’re making this into a competition or something. Oi, you’re not trying to be better friends with John by giving him a better gift, right?”

“I hope you see the hypocrisy in that.”

“Just do what you’d normally do,” Mike eventually said. “From what I know, John seems to like you for what you are. Don’t change your, er, style, I suppose, of gifts, because that’s what he likes about you.”

“That,” Sherlock decided, “is terrible advice. I doubt John’ll enjoy Andromeda stuffed in a box that only opens if you solve two riddles, two anagrams, a vigenere-atbash cross cipher, and a murder mystery.” He gave Mike a piercing stare. “Do you think atbash is too elementary? Should I change it to affine?”

Mike gave Sherlock a wide-eyed look, and visibly swallowed.

“In that case,” he said weakly, “Try to tone it down a bit.”

Sherlock glared with irritation. “What was the point of this conversation if it ended with you telling me what I already knew?”

“The point is,” Mike smiled nervously, “now we’re friends.”

“Could that be John’s birthday gift?”

“For god’s sake, Sherlock.”

-+-+-+-

“I need your help,” Sherlock rushed out, quickly, shortly, and sat down across the table.

“Oh, hi!” Molly said, a touch too high-pitched and a touch too giggly. Even more than usual.

Sherlock glanced at her face briefly. “You’re drinking, now, too?”

“Oh, but I’m sixteen,” she chirped. “My birthday’s in February.”

“That’s the least common birthday month,” responded Sherlock. He had been doing research on birthdays in the dire hope that it would bring some inspiration (futile), and still couldn't forget all the (useless) facts yet.

“Okay,” Molly said with a giggle. “Well, what is it you need help with?” she looked at Sherlock, biting her lip, still nervous despite her intoxication.

“John,” Sherlock stated. “What are you giving him for his birthday?”

_“What?”_

Molly’s jaw dropped open. “It’s his birthday?” she asked in a whisper.

“Yes, in two days.” Sherlock nodded and felt strangely proud of himself—at least he _knew_ John’s birthday. Even if it meant sneaking into Mycoft’s office and finding his birth certificate (“why the _fuck_ didn’t you just ask?”)

Molly frowned, and hummed, and took on a thoughtful look, sipping her (butterbeer and firewhiskey) drink. Sherlock waited impatiently, wanting to see what she was planning on doing. Perhaps it would help him.

“Oh, well, I think I’ll take him skiing,” Molly piped up after a while. “And, ooh, I’ll make him a flower crown from the glowing flowers in the Forest.”

Sherlock stared.

Molly blushed and looked away. “What?”

“How did you think of that?” Sherlock demanded.

“Well… I remember John telling me about him knowing what skiing was, and the Forest incident was something both of us were involved in.”

“So I should give John a pool table and a box of chocolates with a ring hidden inside one of them.”

“What?” Molly broke into a confused smile. “You’re… proposing?”

“No.”

“Then why—oh, that ring thing.”

Sherlock couldn’t fathom how this came so easily to Molly Hooper. Skiing and a flower crown. That was perfect! Imagine, the two of them skiing, John wearing a flower crown and refusing to take it off, even when going downhill, and it constantly flying off his head—

John waking up to find a pool table had been crammed to fit inside him and Mike’s already-cramped dorm room, a box of chocolates on his pillow, breaking his teeth on the ring and feeling incredibly confused and scared, had he travelled back in time?

Ugh, now there was another gift that was probably going to be better than Sherlock’s.

_Treating this like a competition, eh, Holmes?_

Sherlock gritted his teeth. _Damn it!_

“Forget it,” he clipped, “I’ll leave you to your own.”

“Wait—Sherlock—”

Sherlock walked out of the Great Hall without any lunch.

Molly Hooper watched helplessly, and with not a little bitterness. Why, after everything he’d done, she still loved him, she had no clue.

That’s something John and she had in common.

Molly sipped her drink, and winced at the burn of firewhiskey.

“For god’s sake, Sherlock,” she muttered, and took another swig.

-+-+-+-

_I can’t believe you’re doing this._

For once, all of Sherlock was in unison.

Sherlock clenched his hands into fists, then noticed it as a nervous twitch and forced them to open and settle naturally at his side. He swallowed, and strode to catch up.

“Irene Adler,” he said, face devoid of emotion.

“Oh, what do we have here?” Irene gasped and cooed, her voice clear with malice. “Good afternoon, Mr. Holmes. What’s wrong? Trouble with John? Come for a love potion?”

“Yes, then no,” Sherlock said through gritted teeth.

“I need your help,” he muttered under his breath, finding it came more easily now (and shuddering at the mere thought of that). “John’s birthday is tomorrow.”

Irene's eyes widened slightly. _Weird eyes,_ John’s voice said in his mind, and he stifled a grin.

“Really? Oh, I ought to give him a present.” She smirked. “Perhaps a talking teacup.”

Sherlock had been there, then. He understood the reference and glowered.

Chuckling a bit, Irene smoothed down Sherlock’s hair. John and she were the only people who dared do that.

“You have no idea what to do, huh? Poor guy.” She tutted sympathetically.

“I have narrowed my options,” Sherlock said defensively.

“As I said,” Irene shook her head, “no idea.”

Sherlock glared at nothing in particular; he hated it, hated how Irene was so natural around him. He wanted her to stutter, to stumble across words like other people did. Well, most others.

John was “normal” around Sherlock. But John was different—an exception.

But yesterday morning, Mike had been edging towards normal behaviour, with Sherlock. And perhaps, with the help of some firewhiskey, so was Molly?

And Sherlock had been fine with that.

Perhaps they were all exceptions?

 _Maybe you should be like that with everyone,_ said the John voice in Sherlock’s head. _Isn’t that what you want? To not be treated differently?_

Something shifted inside his mind.

He should be grateful that Irene didn’t act different around him.

“I need your help,” Sherlock said again, the thought process taking only a couple seconds. This time, he spoke without muttering under his breath, devoid of reluctance.

“Yes, I got that already.” Irene tapped her fingers on her leg. “But you seem more sincere this time, so I’ll give you some real advice.”

"Sherlock, sweetie, you know what I think? I think John Watson would like you to take him for granted.”

Sherlock’s eyes took on a sharp inquiry with just a hint of confusion. Irene looked rather satisfied at that.

“You keep trying so hard, to make it up to him, but that’s what he _doesn’t_ want. John wants you to just take it as a fact that he’s friends with you. The more you try to give him an extravagant gift, the more he'll think _you'll_ think you're not friends with him yet, unless you give him an awesome gift. But he just wants you to be his friend. No strings attached. Just give him something small—something normal, please, Holmes, I know you better than you think I do.”

For the first time in the conversation, Sherlock looked at Irene fully.

“You are surprisingly educated in the wants and needs of others.” It was one of the highest compliments he had ever given.

“I’m part Veela,” Irene waved it off, but couldn’t hide her pleasantly surprised smile. “Now, let’s hear it. What were you planning on giving him? Just so I can laugh at it later.”

“His cat in a puzzle box, a pool table, and a ring inside of some chocolate. Oh, and ice cream.”

Irene laughed fully. Not a giggle or a chuckle, but a laugh.

 _“Tomorrow,”_ Sherlock emphasised with a glare.

Holding a hand up to her mouth, Irene stifled her laughter and looked at Sherlock with a pity in her eyes.

“Oh, Mr. Holmes.”

* * *

He must be getting pretty desperate now, and it was most certainly interfering with his thinking, and, most of all, Sherlock didn’t care. At this point, he’d contemplate approaching anyone.

Even Charles Milverton.

He found him during the free period, out on the Quidditch field, swooping around on that stupid broomstick.

Sherlock stood and watched for a while, before he drawled out, “You need to work on your balance.”

The figure on the broomstick visibly startled, and came to an abrupt halt in the wobbly figure-eight pattern he had done more than a dozen times already _(honestly)_.

“Sherlock?!” the voice floated down.

“I need your help,” Sherlock said tiredly, having said the phrase so many times it didn't even do anything to him anymore.

It certainly did to Charles Milverton, however, as he immediately descended and jumped down and practically wheeled on Sherlock.

“What wrong,” he gasped out. “What happened?”

 _He thinks it must be something earth-shattering,_ Sherlock thinks with vague amusement, _for there’s no other reason for me to even talk to him, much less ask for help. Ever. Except now._

Sherlock lets out a long-suffering sigh.

“John’s birthday is tomorrow,” he practically recites by now. Like a bloody fill-in-the-blank. “I have already gone to others. You will add to the advice.”

“Birthday?” Charles blinks, then looks relieved, then looks annoyed, then shrugs and gestures for Sherlock to follow (miraculously, Sherlock does) as he moves to, then sits down on, the side benches.

“What kind of advice do you want?” he suggested. “It’s a birthday gift. Something small, but significant.”

“I know that,” Sherlock snapped. “Small, but significant and thoughtful, that lets John know I know we're friends.”

Charles peered at Sherlock with piercing grey eyes. He wasn’t wearing his glasses, Sherlock noticed, he took them off for quidditch practise.

“Well, see here,” Charles began.

“If I were John, I’d be happy to get _anything_ from you. You don’t need to prove yourself to him. I’ve talked to John only a couple of times, but it’s obvious he likes you.

“Forgive the cliche, now, but in these past months, you’re _happier._ I think, for John, that’s been the best gift you can give him.”

Sherlock pressed his lips together in silence.

Charles suddenly stood up. “But, I mean, if you wanted to give him something, I’d say play a game of quidditch.”

 _Obviously you’d say that._ But Sherlock nodded. “You give surprisingly decent advice,” he said (again, one of the better compliments).

“Er, thanks,” Charles replied awkwardly, a bit taken aback (Sherlock couldn't blame him, as so was he himself). “Who’d knew I’d ever hear that from Sherlock Holmes?” he joked.

Sherlock smiled a bit. “I should go. Work on your balance,” he said again.

Turning around and walking away, Sherlock had gotten two steps before Charles suddenly called out, “Wait.”

He stopped, but didn’t turn around.

“The thing with John…” Charles stammered a bit, and Sherlock knew without turning around that he was fidgeting on his feet. “I knew you’d save him. It got you two back on good terms, maybe even better.”

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock responded coldly. “I don’t know if you needed to torture him to do so.”

And he left.

Charles gripped his broomstick and kicked off the ground, sending up a puff of dirt. He swung around and watched as Sherlock strided away.

“Maybe I did,” he mused. “Ungrateful brat."

-+-+-+-

Sherlock had not slept in four days. This was normal.

On March 31, in the wee hours of the morning, he climbed into bed, thinking about his finished birthday gift with much pride, and Sherlock Holmes slept.

This was not normal. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> March 31 is John Watson's birthday! Very late birthday gift.  
> 


	23. Etude

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!”

John screamed and kicked his duvet—along with something else.

He heard a yelp of pain, and stopped to recollect his senses. 

He opened his eyes in a squint.

“… Mike?” 

“Right here. No need to kick me,” Mike complained, rubbing his arm.

“Sorry, mate,” John said sheepishly. Then he smiled. “Hey, cut me some slack—it’s my birthday!”

“I know, I told you.”

“Right.” John grinned. “Didja get me a gift?”

“See for yourself.”

John clambered down the ladder from the top bunk, any drowsiness having faded away. He jumped down and looked around eagerly. It wasn’t hard to spot.

“What the—” John stared at the newly decorated door.

“That’s… nice,” he managed to say.

Mike looked at John’s face and nodded furiously. “Well? Get it? Get it?”

“Get what?” 

“Aw, come on!” Pointing at the griffin, Mike bobbed up and down with anticipation. (Like a toddler displaying his art, John thought, and immediately felt guilty. God, he was turning into Sherlock.)

Mike gestured dramatically to the door. “Don’t say _ you  _ don’t get it, of all people!”

“It’s a griffin…” John squinted, and frowned, and tapped his feet.

It took him a couple of seconds.

_ “Gryffindor!”  _ he burst out, wheeling on Mike with a pointed finger. “It’s a bloody griffin door, that’s what!”

Mike beamed. “Happy birthday, John.”

-+-+-+-

When John got to the Great Hall for breakfast, he looked around, but didn’t see Sherlock anywhere. He frowned, but shrugged it off. He was probably off solving mysteries, his brain said, but his heart thought otherwise.  _ Sherlock’s definitely doing some big birthday thing,  _ it thought giddily.  _ I hope it’s dangerous. _

Then again, though, Sherlock did seem in a bad mood these days. It didn’t get past John, how he was in even fewer classes than usual, the even more constant brooding. 

Well, either way, John thought as he took a random seat in the Gryffindor section, it would be fine. If Sherlock didn’t give him a gift, it really wouldn’t be that big of a deal.

_ “John!”  _

Looking up from his porridge, John saw Molly Hooper, walking over and waving, a hand behind her back.

“Hi, Molly,” he waved back, and couldn’t help but feel anticipation.

Molly sat down and leaned in, eyes bright and excited.

“I’ve extra skis and snow boots. We’re going skiing this weekend.”

“What?” John widened his eyes. “Really? Awesome!”

“And, one more thing.” Molly’s eyes were bright as she brought her arm from behind her back. “Here.”

Tiny black and blue flowers weaved into a ring of dark green vine.

“Woah, that’s pretty,” John said with a smile. “From the Forest?”

“Yep!” Molly smiled back. “It glows in the dark,” she added.

“Cool.” John put it on his head. “I’ll wear it the entire day, and more,” he promised.

Molly laughed, and adjusted it some. “Happy birthday, John.”

-+-+-+-

In the middle of a history lesson on the Goblin war, a knock sounded on the door, and in walked Anderson.

“John?” He gestured at him. “Come with me, please.”

Classmates had exchanged worries glances and coos of _ “some _ one’s in trouble”, and John had followed, thinking how dreadfully funny it would be if he got in trouble on his birthday, and followed soundlessly until they reached Anderson’s office.

“Don’t worry, John,” Anderson only then said, turning to face John with a smile. “You’re not in trouble.

“But your parents are.”

“I’m sorry?” John couldn’t help but say.

“Your parents,” Anderson continued with a rueful shake of his head, “have been sending dozens of letters and packages into the muggle post office, all with the address  _ Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. _

There was a silence as John took this in.

“Oh, shit,” he finally said. 

“Fortunately, we have managed to intercept this. Very few people are aware of this, and the people who do know have merely put it off as the job of some very dedicated pranksters.”

“Oh, well,” John shrugged a shoulder, “that’s okay then.”

“The Ministry of Magic has talked to your parents,” Anderson continued, “and we have given them a chance to give you a birthday present.”

He opened his office doors, and John was engulfed in the arms of his parents.

His mother couldn’t stop saying John’s name, and his father couldn’t stop comparing his height with the others in the room.

They had reminiscenced, and her mother had demanded John to write more, and his father had asked him whether or not he learned to magically style hair, and that their friendly house ghost was quite nice, really.

Someone from the Ministry of Magic had come with the two, and when time ran up, he had to practically drag them into the fireplace. John couldn’t blame them, either—travelling with Floo powder was pretty scary. His mother had screamed “write more!” as they left, and Anderson had gone panicky, because was there even a place called write-more? and John had assured him that they had a personal valet, they’ll be fine, and even if they did end up in write-more, they’d certainly find a way back home.

John walked back into the Goblin war with an armful of sweets, clothing, and various other miscellaneous objects.

-+-+-+-

During Charms, John was greeted by Irene Adler, who gave him a teacup, and a pot of tea.

When John poured the tea into the cup, it immediately began to emit a squeaking noise.

“I could’ve made this myself,” he joked, and sipped the tea (which was actually quite nice).

-+-+-+-

Before quidditch practise, Charles Milverton was waiting for him in the lockers. He glanced at the flower crown John wore proudly, but didn’t comment on it.

“Happy birthday,” he said, as John opened his locker.

“No, I can’t have this,” John had protested in vain, trying to hand it back to Charles.

“You can and you will,” Charles said firmly. “It’s my old one. If you don’t take it it’ll go into the shed for someone else. And that’ll be a waste.” 

“I…” John bit his lip and tried (and failed) to stifle a smile. “Okay.” He stopped shoving it over to Charles.

John looked at the (his!!) Nimbus 2000, with admiration clear in his eyes.

“Thank you, Charles,” he said genuinely.

Charles fidgeted on his feet. “Does this mean we’re even?” he muttered, licking his lips.

Oh, right.

John looked at the broomstick, then back to Charles, and smiled ruefully. “After all, it did get me and Sherlock back together.”

“Exactly! That’s what I was trying to do,” Charles blurted out, before looking a bit sheepish. “I suppose I went a bit overboard.”

“Happy birthday, John,” Charles rushed out, and left the room in a hurry.

-+-+-+-

John was never more ready for friday movie night.

He walked into the room of requirement, heart pounding with excitement, and was not disappointed when he was immediately greeted with a huge cheer.

A banner strung across the ceiling:  _ HAPPY BIRTHDAY, JOHN WATSON! _

_ No “Hamish”?  _ John thought, and, strangely, instead of feeling relieved, he was a bit sad.

But it quickly disappeared as a girl ran up and smothered a slice of cake all over his face. 

John laughed and shook his head, flinging icing all around him. He wiped his face and licked his fingers.  _ Oh, god, it’s like my late fifteen-and-a-half-birthday all over again. _

Greg Lestrade walked up and waved his wand, clearing the last crumbs from his face. 

“Happy birthday, John,” he said with a warm smile. “Your parents certainly did a matter on the Ministry. I suppose the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

“Absolutely,” John said with a sly grin.

Lestrade grinned back. “There are still some stray letters left, so I’ve gotta go in a minute, but I baked the cake for you.”

“What, cake mix and canned frosting?” John quipped, pointing to Lestrade's slice.

Lestrade shook his head wryly. “You just can’t beat perfection. Even with magic.” He looked around, and leaned in. “One more thing: where’s Sherlock? Normally I’d let it slide as normal by his standards, but I didn’t think he’d miss your birthday.”

“I’m not sure either,” John admitted. “He said he didn’t know what to get for me, and honestly, he probably doesn’t.”

“What  _ do  _ you want?” Greg asked.

“To tell the truth?” John shrugged. “I actually don’t even care. I just want Sherlock to be pleased with whatever gift he gets me.”

“That’s very noble of you,” Lestrade said with an approving look. “I can tell why Sherlock likes you.” He reached out an arm and ruffled John’s hair. “Well, I gotta get going now. Happy birthday, John.”

John nodded, waved goodbye, and began to celebrate his sixteenth birthday.

Truthfully, it wasn’t much of a party, than an intimate get-together. They had played muggle games and muggle music, watched bad telly and laughed at it, watched incredibly good telly and cried at it—as per usual.

It was past midnight when he trudged down the halls to his dorm, still smiling from the adrenaline.

He opened the door (the  _ griffin _ door), only to find someone was already there, waiting for him.

-+-+-+-

“Sherlock?” John gaped a little. “You’re… here.”

Sherlock Holmes was standing in the middle of the room. He nodded briefly. “Yes.”

“So what’s this?” John tried to dim his eagerness a bit. “Did you find an apt birthday gift?”

“I hope so,” Sherlock said simply.

He pointed his wand to a chair piled high with dirty laundry. John watched as the clothes floated off the chair and onto the floor.

John raised an eyebrow, and then sighed. “Yeah, they were dirty anyways.”

Gesturing to the chair, Sherlock fixed John with a steely gaze. “Sit.”

John took a seat on the previously laundry-chair. 

“So,” he said. “What did you decide on?”

Sherlock reached over to the side, and grabbed a violin.

“I’m going to play for you,” he declared, nestling the violin in the crook of his neck.

“Oh,” John said, a bit startled. “That’s nice. What’re you gonna play? That, er, begins with a t, the t-chai guy?”

Sherlock stared at John with disbelief. “Tchaikovsky.”

“Um, yeah.” John blushed. “That.”

It took a moment for Sherlock to regain his composure. 

“No, I’m not going to play Tchaikovsky, though if you wish, I could do so in the future.”

“What will you play, then?”

Sherlock responded by taking a deep breath. And then he played.

It began in a minor scale, quiet, slow, clipped. Sherlock swayed ever so slightly, his eyes closed. The notes rang out mournfully, and lingered still.

Slowly, the tempo increased. Sherlock drew the bow more heavily, bolder, now, his eyes closed tightly, lips pressed with concentration. A crescendo paired with an ascending scale, twisting into a high point. And then silence.

A simple melody picked up. Major. Quiet but clearer, notes rounded. Comforting. Sherlock’s brow cleared, his shoulders relaxed. He opened his eyes and fixated them on John as he moved more freely now, swaying, starting a walk, a waltz. His eyes never left John’s. Sherlock was smiling.

A smooth series of notes drew the song near its end, ever so quiet, the tune so similar to its beginning, and yet the mood was a world apart.

The last note floated through the room, taking its time, before drifting off. 

“Happy birthday, John Hamish Watson.”

Hamish, John thought, and felt something warm blossom in his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part two of John's birthday :)  
> 


	24. Make Happy

John was a procrastinator. Sherlock wasn’t.

Sometime around March, they had finally finished going through all the O.W.L. criteria. The day immediately preceding that, Sherlock grimly dragged John over to the Room of Requirement, ignoring John’s whines of “but we  _ just  _ finished  _ yesterday!” _

Once they were in the practise room, he gave John a long hard look and heaved a long-suffering sigh.

“You need bonus marks,” he declared. “At your current performance, you will get at most Acceptable, most likely Poor.” He fixed John with a steadfast glare. “You can do better, I know you can.”

John kicked around some invisible dust and mumbled something incomprehensible.

“Bonus marks,” Sherlock continued, “are given to students who can successfully cast a patronus.”

Alarmed, John took a step back—the only time any professor talked about patronuses (patroni?) was about how advanced it was.

“I think we’re taking this a bit too fast,” he said with a nervous laugh. “I can barely cast a normal charm, let alone a patronus.”

“You can do it,” Sherlock insisted. “You have me as a critique—”

“I don’t think shouting at me will help—” 

“You have the resolve, well, stubbornness may be more accurate—”

“Excuse me, I think you mean my  _ Gryffindor _ —”

“Your muscle memory develops rather quickly, I think you could get the wrist motions down in just a couple tries—”

“Oh, now you’re just trying to make me feel better—”

“And you’re—you’re  _ happy.” _

Seeing Sherlock’s expression, musing, almost wistful, John found he couldn’t retort.

Then Sherlock’s jaw set and his eyes cleared once again.

“It’s thought of as a very difficult charm,” he continued explaining with renewed vigour. “While it is true that casting a patronus requires precision and skill, it is the objective of simulating happiness that most people find trouble with.”

“So how do you do it?” John asked, a bit impatiently. 

Sherlock grinned, a bit impishly. “Chess with Mycroft. I was ten years old. Fifteen minutes beforehand I had set aside to strategize. Throughout the game I shouted out anecdotal mysteries, each ceaselessly following the other. He couldn’t resist solving them. He was absolutely mortified when I won. It was  _ wonderful. _

“Now, watch carefully, you’ll be trying this after me.”

He took out his wand and nodded at John, who moved aside despite his uncertainty (what, after as in immediately? Today? _ ) _ and watched as Sherlock began to cast his patronus.

As he watched, he mimicked Sherlock’s motions with his own wrist, trying his utmost best to focus and not to panic.

_ “Expecto Patronum!” _

A silvery-blue dragon burst out of Sherlock’s wand and darted around the room. It landed in a heap on the floor, where it curled up into a ball and puffed out a small cloud of smoke.

John only looked at it for one second before blurting, “it’s adorable!”

Sherlock flushed and scowled. He waved his wand and the patronus faded away.

“Oh, Sherlock, I’m sorry,” John said, seeing Sherlock’s face. 

“I don’t particularly enjoy the patronus charm,” Sherlock said quietly. “I can say the spell flawlessly and my movements are better than textbook, but the emotional aspect is simply not enough.”

“I, I think it might be the time,” John said, trying for amendation. “Beating Mycroft was, what, five years ago? I think you ought to change it to a more recent one.”

John was hit with a frustrated glare. 

“There isn’t a more recent one,” Sherlock said tiredly, like he was too used to this to be vehement anymore.

John felt his face heat up instantly. 

Sherlock let John feel terrible for one second before taking pity. “Your turn. Keep your wrist steady and smooth.  _ Expecto patronum _ .”

John sucked in a breath and grabbed his wand. Okay. Forget what just happened, he needed to be happy.

_ Happy! I’m so happy, ha ha! I won the lottery! I’m a wizard! I’m so brilliant! _

He would look back at this in later times and cringe horribly. He couldn’t have done worse. 

But he couldn’t help it, his mind was weird,  _ be happy,  _ he told himself, and this is what his stupid brain came up with. 

It wasn’t much of a surprise when he twirled his wand, shrieking the charm in, still, a hysterical,  _ be happy!  _ voice, and nothing happened—not even a pathetic puff of smoke.

“Bugger!” he muttered. He remembered his panicked thoughts during his freshly failed attempt at  _ happiness _ , and oh, so  _ now  _ he was laughing.

“Do I really need to do this? I’ll just study really hard on everything else.”

“No.”

“No?”

Sherlock shook his head. “No, you will cast a patronus.” He started to walk towards the door. “When you get a moment of however fleeting happiness, capture it in your mind and store it away.”

With a cross between a groan and a swear, John followed suit. 

“Yeah, I’ll just do that,” he muttered. He was going to fail.

_ Think happy thoughts, think happy thoughts. _

-+-+-+

It was approximately ten seconds after the song had ended, and neither of them had moved.

John’s blinked his eyes rapidly, trying to clear his blurry vision. He swallowed a lump in his throat. It didn’t go away.

Sherlock had composed. For John. An entire bloody sonata.

He found his feet were stuck on the carpet when Sherlock made the first move, silently walking closer, placing his violin on the table. Coming within inches of John. Taking his wrist in one hand. The other reaching towards his robe. 

Slipping the hand into a pocket, he drew out John’s wand.

Sherlock fixed John with a look of determination. 

_ “Expecto Patronum _ ,” he murmured, and placed the wand in John’s hand.

John blinked. Then he made a noise of complete and utter exasperation. 

But he was smiling, and when he began to draw circles with his wand, he looked at Sherlock Holmes  _ (an entire bloody sonata)  _ and when the words came out, quiet but confident and  _ happy,  _ what came out of John’s wand was not a puff of smoke, but a hippogriff.

It galloped around the dorm once, then stood with a cocked head, tail flicking, eyeing the two of them warily.

John, recalling a particularly nasty encounter he’d had with a hippogriff in a lesson, very slowly approached it, holding out a slightly trembling hand.

He heard a snicker, and then a laugh, and turned to see Sherlock looking at John with a very familiar look of exasperated annoyance. But his smile was warm, and his eyes shone with pride.

“John, it’s your bloody patronus, it’s barely corporeal.”

“Shut up,” John muttered as he petted the hippogriff only to have his hand go through its head. It snorted, and moved in an attempt to nuzzle John. 

John turned to Sherlock and eyed him mischievously.

“Did you do all that for me to have a very happy memory?”

“No, it was a birthday gift.” He made a thoughtful face. “It was part of the gift, I suppose. With a patronus, your marks will certainly rise to Acceptable.”

John shook his head and walked across the room. He touched the violin. “In any case, that was quite spectacular. How did you learn to play like that?”

“Instruments are easy, predictable. I know exactly what will come out of it. It is merely a comfort, I suppose.”

“Well, you’re very good at it,” John ran his fingers down the violin bow. “That piece was absolutely gorgeous, and your performance did it complete justice. Just… flawless.” He shook his head again, with awe.

There wasn’t a response, and John looked over to see Sherlock looking back at him with a bit of apprehension, laced with confusion, but topped off with a very proud smile.

“I want to show you something,” he suddenly said.

“Er, alright,” John said, a bit surprised. He moved aside and watched as Sherlock drew out his wand.

_ “Expecto Patronum!” _

A silvery-blue dragon burst out of Sherlock’s wand and pranced along the air. 

But this wasn’t what John remembered, oh no, not at all.

John yelped and ducked (despite just being reminded moments before, that patronuses cannot be physically touched). A second later, he stood up slowly, carefully, arms still around his head, and he looked at Sherlock’s patronus.

All of a sudden his hippogriff seemed much smaller.

“It’s  _ huge.”  _ John looked at Sherlock, gaping.

Sherlock shrugged innocuously, though inwardly he was trying not to preen.

“I took your advice.” He grinned. “A more recent memory, you said?”

John feigned surprise. “Which one?”

“Well…” Sherlock smiled teasingly. “Various ones.”

“Like?” John raised his eyebrows.

“Oh, fine, if it makes you happy, John, they all include you.” 

John couldn’t keep himself from giggling, and, after a second, Sherlock joined in as well.

A while later, their patronuses, detecting no imminent danger, faded back into their wands. John watched his hippogriff shimmer away, then Sherlock’s dragon.

And suddenly John had such a brilliant idea, he swore he heard a lightbulb  _ ping!  _ inside his head. 

“Wait,” he blurted out, quickly going over to his closet, nearly tripping over the pile of clothes that were now on the floor.

Moving aside a miscellaneous mess, John rummaged around until he found what he was looking for.

He held up his dear old dragon stuffie and looked it over with pride. It was perfect.

“For you,” he said proudly, turning around and displaying it to Sherlock.

Sherlock looked flabbergasted. “I haven’t had a stuffed animal since I was two years old, and that was a collection of labelled human body systems.”

“But it’s your patronus,” John argued. “And it’s symbolic, too. I healed this ear with magic, the second time I’ve ever used magic before, see?” He showed Sherlock, who squinted at it before responding, matter-of-factly,

“That ear has been chewed on for more than five years, by both you and your cat.”

“What— _ Andromeda!” _

Sherlock laughed quietly, looking away. (He bit his tongue slightly when he laughed. John didn’t know why he noticed, or why he liked it so much.)

John put on a pleading face. “At least, take it as a late birthday gift,” he suggested.

(He had asked Sherlock this about a month ago and was utterly distraught when he found out he missed it: January 6. Sherlock had shrugged it off, not really understanding the point of birthdays anyways. At least, until John’s came up.)

“Honestly, John…” Sherlock trailed off, shaking his head.

John pouted a bit and inadvertently hugged the little dragon to his chest.

Sherlock felt his heart twinge.  _ Oh, John,  _ he thought, and held out his hand.

“Give it here,” he sighed.

John looked up, still holding the stuffie. He saw Sherlock’s open hand and laughed.

“There you go, Sherlock,” he chirped, handing it over. Sherlock immediately adjusted his hand so that he was holding it by his tail with two fingers.

“His name?” Sherlock asked, eyeing the dragon carefully.

“Uh…” John avoided eye contact, wondering if he should sacrifice the last drop of dignity he had left. Sherlock noticed and smirked.

“Sir Lock!” John suddenly yelled, with another lightbulb  _ ping! _

The look he got made him wonder if revealing its actual name would’ve been better.

Sherlock scrunched up his eyebrows and looked at John like he had grown antlers instead of casting a invisibility charm. John knew that look well. 

“John, I will not be calling my dragon stuffie like I’m saying my name with a lisp.”

“Why not?” John said innocently (though he really wasn’t). “It would be pretty cute.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. John realised the extent of his words and felt a flush creep up his face.

Suddenly Sherlock made a noise of impatience, and began walking to the door.

“What?” John said, hurrying over, as Sherlock opened the door, revealing Mike, who looked surprised at first, and then annoyed. But a friendly annoyance, not unlike a look John would give Sherlock, or vice versa.

“Hello, Sherlock.” Mike’s eyes caught Sir Lock, whom Sherlock had resorted to holding in the crook of his arm. He took on a look of confusion, but stayed silent.

Sherlock nodded. “I was giving John his birthday gift.”

“Er, alright,” Mike said, and glanced over to John for a second with a questioning look.

“Goodnight, John.” Sherlock strode away.

“Um, you too,” John managed to say, still not used to those abrupt partings despite having experienced so many of them, before Sherlock completely exited out of hearing range (his goddamn long legs!)

Mike stepped in and closed the door. He immediately wheeled on John.

“Where’s your cat?” he demanded.

“You know her,” John shrugged. He walked over to the bunk and stepped on the second step of the ladder, hoisting himself up. “There she is. You just sleep through anything, don’t’cha?” John cooed to Andromeda, who laid, curled up, on John’s pillow. He saw her paw twitching and scratched the small white splotch on her black-and-blue ear softly, the spot he knew she couldn’t reach. A satisfied purr and her paw settled down.

Mike, seeing this, breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank Merlin.” He laughed. “So what  _ did _ he give you?” 

“He played this song on the violin,” John answered, thinking with amusement, that that sentence simply does not describe what had just happened in the slightest.

“Right, then.” Mike yawned. “I get bathroom first.”

John rolled his eyes and nodded. He sat on the previous-laundry chair, and listened as the satisfying sound of running water started to emit from the bathroom.

Part of him was still dazed over the past events. Sherlock had done all that, for John?

Did he do the same with the others, his previous friends? 

Maybe he’d done this to everyone, played the violin and helped them through problems and Patronuses. Maybe he was just another 

pawn.

But, John was the only one to keep Sherlock with him. To bring him back. That must mean  _ something, _ at least. 

He had driven it into Sherlock’s mind, that he wasn’t going to betray him. 

But what if he did? What if he made a mistake? 

To break his promise, shatter Sherlock’s fragile trust over their friendship—John had a nagging suspicion that his boggart had changed.

But,  _ no.  _ He shook his head, to nobody but himself. That wasn’t going to happen. 

Who Sherlock thought he was, it was who he wanted to be. He wasn’t going to let him down.

With that thought, John began to get ready for bed.

He stepped up the ladder to his bunk and ever-so-gently lifted up a slumbering Andromeda, placing her down over to the side.

Suddenly, he froze. 

A small scrap of parchment lay there on his pillow.

John picked up the note and scanned it. His mind spun with his attempt at finding a clue, a double meaning. He flipped it over. He shook it a couple times. He cast a charm that lit up his wand, and held the note up to it. 

Nothing. Just three words.

_ Forbidden Forest. Come. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's my birthday today! *throws confetti*  
> Well, yesterday since I'm posting this after midnight, but still.


	25. Furantae

Sweat clung to Sherlock’s shirt as he navigated down the street.

There was a mouse on a neighbouring girl’s doorstep. She must’ve gotten a cat. Sherlock rolled his eyes a bit. Cats didn’t do much, she’d have to keep it in her dorm, and they shed horribly. Hogwarts had an owlery, and owls sent mail. A much smarter decision, Sherlock thought, than a cat, or, Merlin forbid, a rat.

He would get his letter soon. He was disappointed upon not receiving it on his tenth birthday, for surely he could handle it, but Mycroft was adamant.

It had rained recently. Dried earthworms stuck onto grey sidewalks.

Two children ran down the street, immediately hushing their giggles upon seeing the brooding little boy walking alone. When he passed, the whispers started up.

 _Make new friends,_ he thought irritably. He didn’t need friends. Mycroft didn’t have friends. Neither did Eurus.

Oh, you’d think she did. But she didn’t have friends, Sherlock knew, not really.

Sherlock passed an ice cream shop. He had once seen an elderly woman on the bench outside it, who shook her fists and cursed with a raspy voice. She was a widower (ring, but all other things leading to solitary), no pets, and had a child going to Hogwarts (letter tucked in pocket), but when Sherlock rattled these off she merely smiled with crooked teeth, adjusted Sherlock’s coat, and fixed him with such a look that he stopped much earlier than he would’ve, and strode off, slightly miffed.

Later on, Sherlock found missing in his coat three Sickles.

That night, Eurus had told him if he could deduce what she’d done that day she’d give him a prize. She had gotten some ice cream. When he told her this she smiled an eerily familiar smile and handed Sherlock three silver Sickles.

Sherlock couldn’t pin her down, she was a butterfly that flew off the board, no matter how many thumbtacks Sherlock pushed, and it drove him insane. He could not read her, and anything he did was merely because she wanted him to.

Suddenly Sherlock’s increasingly agitated stride was caught mid step, foot catching on a piece of mud, dried after the rain—he put his hands out and tumbled onto the pavement.

He cursed and swept down his jacket, glaring at nothing in particular.

His glare quickly turned to a look of surprise, directed at the fence.

Fall forgotten, Sherlock placed a hand on the picket. How had he not noticed it before?

Pressing his head against the side of the fence, he squinted at it.

There was something behind the fence. A raised surface, only slightly jutting out, only seen from the awkward angle Sherlock was in.

A button.

Suddenly his childhood instinct took over, and without taking the time to think, to sift through the possibilities, Sherlock reached out and touched it.

Something yanked in his stomach, and all of a sudden there were no fences, no ambient noises of the street.

A room, obviously designed for secrecy, Sherlock standing right smack dab in the middle—within a millisecond of taking this in he immediately pulled out his wand and cast an invisibility charm (courtesy of Mycroft, “because it could in handy”—and it did).

Six people, kneeling in a circle, hands together in the middle. Thin streams of what looked like fire weaved round their wrists. A house elf stood near, touching a wand where their hands met.

 _“_ — _urantae?”_ they finished the sentence together.

 _“I will,”_ they said collectively, after a pause.

And that was all he heard.

In an instant he felt something violently grab his arm, and there was another tugging in his gut, and the scenery changed again.

 _Oh bloody hell,_ thought Sherlock as he took in his surroundings for the second time.

“Brother dear,” he started, but was interrupted.

“Sherlock, that was foolish,” Mycroft said, and for once his voice wasn’t soft and silky. “If I hadn’t seen—”

“What was that?"Sherlock demanded.

Mycroft fixed Sherlock with a cold, hard look. “That is no business for a ten year old.”

Sherlock glared. “In that case, I think we should let Lestrade in and begin with the Unbreakable Vow.”

It was simple, really, driven from some brief straightforward deducing, past information, and the fancy loafers from the crack on the bottom of the door—but it was wonderful, that split second when surprise could be seen on Mycroft’s face. Sherlock would relish that moment, add it to his (pitifully minuscule) mind palace album of Moments He Beat Mycroft.

“You heard my brother,” Mycroft said, quickly regaining his composure. “Come in.”

The door opened, and Greg Lestrade walked in, fidgeting with his wand and biting his lip.

Mycroft and Sherlock kneeled down onto the embroidered carpet and placed their hands together. Lestrade walked closer and placed the wand on top.

“Will you, Sherlock Holmes, promise never to repeat that word, that spell, you heard in the room, said by those six occupying it before they said “I will”, to anyone?”

 _Specific there, brother dear,_ Sherlock thought, amused, before responding with a drawling, _“I will.”_

The same fire wove around their hands.

Mycroft stood up and mockingly brushed off his newly-pressed trousers. “Mummy will be worrying,” he said shortly.

Sherlock bowed his head ever so slightly. He took out his wand and held it over his head.

“Are you—” Lestrade got out, looking at ten year old Sherlock with apprehension. But Mycroft sent him a cold look and he shut right up.

“Sherlock will do just fine,” he said softly, casting his gaze back to him.

Sherlock felt his eyes soften just a tad before he twirled his wand and apparated back home.

-+-+-+-

_Furantae._

That was it. Sherlock was almost certain. A spell. Latin, from _furantur_ —to steal.

Hours of scouring through Mycroft’s textbooks weren’t all for naught.

 _“promise never to repeat that word,”_ he had promised. Well, he wasn’t repeating _urantae._

Sherlock frowned, fingered his wand nervously, and pointed it at a butterfly on his corkboard above his bed.

 _“Furantae,”_ he said softly.

For a split second he panicked, as surely the vow was broken, surely he would die—but the only sensation was something like an electric shock racing down his arm and crawling up his spine. It was magic, he was sure of it—strong magic.

The whisper-thin butterfly wings _(delias eucharis)_ trembled ever-so-slightly.

To steal. Furantur, furantae. Spells usually had some deviation from its core word. Perhaps he could not steal something he owned (or, something he had already taken).

It popped into his mind. His fingers suddenly clenched around his wand.

Sherlock bit his lip and looked at his closed door, though it, right turn, into the other room. Of Eurus.

 _Treasure Island,_ first edition. For her ninth birthday. Sherlock had seen mummy and father talking to Ms. Trover at their daycare _(“classical muggle literature, stimulates the brain”.)_ He had seen them taking the “train” to London.

He had managed mere minutes of rapid skimming before Eurus had whisked it up into her room, where it would remain.

Sherlock doubted she even read it. It sat from the first day to now, in her second drawer. Sherlock didn’t dare touch it, every time he had the thought, he’d remember the snitched chocolate frogs and secret skims of her textbooks, the next day finding his hair falling with the touch of a hand, the neighbours reporting Sherlock outside in the middle of the night, kicking their neighbours cat. Eurus would surely do something if she found Sherlock with her book.

But if Mycroft was so adamant, even going as far as an Unbreakable Vow, surely the spell must be quite powerful?

And he wanted it so badly. Countless times had he summoned up his recollection of those pages, reciting them to near memory.

The yearning surged up now, like a wave.

Eurus headed out every evening, for walks and secret meetings and stranger things. Surely, with some planning…

He could almost see the maroon cover, feel the soft leather bound spine, turn the pages into another world. With just one word, one spell.

-+-+-+-

Sherlock was coming.

An immediate invisibility charm.

_(Magic is forbidden, my dear. A few more years.)_

It was okay. Mycroft wouldn’t tell.

Sherlock was in front of the door. He’d expected the room to be empty, for her to be outside, as per usual days. Not today. Sherlock had been acting different today, more nervous, more furrowed brows and fiddling with his wand. He was up to something.

So she stayed in, and here he was. Not much of a surprise.

The handle turned to reveal a pale but lock-jawed Sherlock. His hands were clenched around his wand, he was very nervous, but his eyes were bright with anticipation, and they led straight to the second drawer.

Oh. Treasure Island. What a bore. Exaggerated and childish.

She’d allow him to look at it. But perhaps another hair shedding jinx would do. Sherlock had been utterly distraught.

Sherlock pointed the wand at the drawer, through the unseen Eurus.

 _“Furantae,”_ the whisper came shakily and suddenly riddled with uncertainty.

A searing pain came over her body. A sword of flame was tearing her apart, ripping and twisting her organs. She screamed, and when she held her hands to her head, sinking down to the floor, she saw her body shimmer into view.

Her consciousness drifting away, she watched the other’s face morph into horror, and screamed again. Sherlock Holmes, in a split second, turned and bolted.

* * *

 

_Forbidden Forest. Come._

Only this, and nothing more.

John’s eyes darted across the paper, picking up the tiniest of details, the pressure of the quill, ink splatters, the ways the i’s were dotted—but all for naught. Even if he could identify the writing, there was a good chance it was forged.

John stayed silent for a long time, tearing at the inside of his cheek and looking at the note so hard his vision went blurry.

It seemed like five minutes had passed before he finally made a decision.

“Mike?” John said quietly.

“Yeah?” he heard him raise his voice over the running water of the shower.

“I’m, just gonna go out for a bit. Get some fresh air. It’s been a long day.” It wasn’t a lie. Plus, he often went out during nights—he liked the stars.

“Alright, mate. I’ll see you then.”

“See ya,” John mumbled. He folded the note and put it into his pocket. Then, he gave Andromeda one final rub on the ears, and headed towards the (griffin) door.

He padded down the halls in his slippers. More than once he looked back, heart skipping a beat, almost _hoping_ to see a shadow of some kind. Perhaps, a familiar tall figure with a navy-blue wool jacket. Perhaps it was his doing. But there was no shadow of friend nor foe nor stranger, only John’s dark flickering shadow stretched down the halls.

He shivered and cast an invisibility charm.

The heavy doors opened with a tiny creak, and John stepped out into the brisk April air.

If a person were to see him on this moonlit path, they would think he was wandering in a daze, maybe even sleepwalking. But this was far from true—John’s head was whirring with a thousand thoughts.

He stopped just short of where the clearing ended with a row of towering trees.

Forbidden Forest, he repeated in his head. Well, there was the forest— _what now?_

Worrying a corner of the note into shreds, John shifted his weight between his feet and took an almost longing look behind him. Nothing. Nothing seemed to be a very pleasant choice, he thought, shifting his weight from his heels to his toes now. He took a slight step back.

But his fingers clung onto the note like a life sentence, and he almost immediately took the step back to the forest.

Gryffindor, he thought firmly, and headed into the woods.

His steps were almost automatic, walking without thinking. Keeping his head up, eyes alert, ears prickling at the faintest rustling of the leaves, a hoot of an owl.

An intersection.

A tiny black flower lay in the middle of the path to his left.

He kept moving, feeling no less apprehension, perhaps more, than before.

More intersections, more black flowers.

After a couple minutes and around four or five flowers, he came to a halt.

John was standing in front of a large cave. A very familiar large cave.

A familiar voice floated into his mind: _Scared, Watson?_

 _“Yes,”_ John hissed, to nobody but himself, and walked in.

-+-+-+-

_… absolutely gorgeous. Flawless._

A part of him was horrified, completely petrified, at the thought of a student, or worse, a professor, seeing him in this state, almost _skipping_ and beaming with joy. But it was being overpowered by the part of him that was causing him to do so.

A hippogriff! Such a unique patronus, no wonder it was John’s.

He realised he had devolved from simply holding Sir Lock (alas, the name stuck) to nestling it in the crook of his arm, the other holding his violin and bow.

Bloody hell, if anyone were to come down the hall…

He cast a disillusion charm and took a quick turn. Another shortcut he remembered.

He moved aside a portrait, revealing a tiny doorknob.

If it weren’t for the past events, if he wasn’t in his overjoyed state, he would’ve noticed the portrait was just the slightest bit crooked, the doorknob the tiniest bit smudged and unpolished.

But his mind was still full of patronuses and happiness and John, that he shifted the stuffie onto his violin and grasped the handle. There was a yank in his stomach like a fishing string, and in an instant Sherlock knew what it was and he knew the trap, but it was too late.

-+-+-+-

As Mycroft Holmes sat in his office, watching Sherlock play the violin for John through a crystal clear screen, he felt a strange sense of pride.

Of course, he thought with amusement, there were unnecessary chords and too many ornaments, but Sherlock never could resist a touch of the dramatic.

As the music picked up from the crescendo in the same tune but major (rather cheap technique, but he supposed it done the deed well), Mycroft watched Sherlock, his faint smile and his look to John.

He felt another tugging guilt, for he was certainly treading on very private matters, but he waved off the feeling—it wasn’t like he didn’t have a reason.

When John Watson arrived in his office, when Mycroft learned of his name, he had reeled with a force he had experienced very little in his life.

 _Watson._ He knew that name. And, after seeing their parents, he was certain.

How it happened, he didn’t know.

But there was no time for digging deeper. The months that followed proved no time for personal cases. Tragedies, deaths, robberies. Caught up in dozens, Mycroft was, for the first time, overwhelmed.

John Watson, meanwhile, revealed that he knew nothing of the things Mycroft knew had happened. Memory wiped. And so had his parents. They had no idea of their past.

They had no idea they were supposed to have perished in a fire.

But there was once again no time to think more of this.

_Forbidden Forest. Come._

There were more reasons than just the note and its contents that alarmed Mycroft.

He would’ve known of it. Anyone coming into the room would be detected. But he had no idea where and how the note appeared.

And then Sherlock touched the portkey (that he also didn’t know about), and John entered the Forbidden Forest, and all his screens suddenly buzzed and displayed nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cliffhanger~  
> Apologies for this very confusing mystery. I am trying my utmost best.  
> I'm going to leave you with this:  
>  _Furantur_ —to steal.  
>  _Magic **ae**_ —magic.  
> 


	26. East Wind

Even before his vision cleared, even before his feet landed, Sherlock had charmed away both his violin and the stuffie into his room, drawn out his wand, and the beginning of a hex was escaping his lips.

Then his vision cleared and he stopped.

He nearly dropped his wand. His mouth opened—he quickly shut it.

Ironically, this was the only person whom it didn’t matter whether he hid his emotions or not—either way, she knew.

“Good morning, Eurus.”

His little sister smiled, the same smile that sent a chill down Sherlock’s spine in his childhood memories, and did not fail to do so now, nearly five years later.

Sherlock desperately spun his mind around to find a way out of this, but his thoughts were quickly interrupted by another one of the very few people who could do so.

“Eurus,” Mycroft said levelly, immediately upon his entry, definitely before he could get a clear sight of her.

“Mycroft,” Eurus said back, more ice and more insincerity.

“What do you want?” Sherlock snapped to both of them.

Eurus glanced at Sherlock briefly. “Come on, then,” she said sardonically, and walked into the cave.

Sherlock looked at Mycroft, who looked back without emotion, but with a small warmth, a little comfort, in his eyes, that only someone who knew him very well could make out.

He followed Eurus into the cave. 

What he saw was expected, but it still made his heart stutter and drop. 

Turning his face so Eurus and Mycroft couldn’t see, Sherlock half-strode, half-stumbled over to the centre of the cave, where a bloody, bruised, and battered John Watson lay unconscious, a hand limp over a stone basin with wispy black smoke pouring out.  

Immediately casting a shield charm around both of them, Sherlock frantically checked his vitals with trembling fingers, although he knew he wasn’t dead, because otherwise Eurus couldn’t hold anything against him—but still, there was some comfort found in the fluttering pulse. 

The blood was long clotted, but he conjured a damp cloth. As he gingerly wiped away the wounds, they began to seem very familiar. Sherlock had a sudden flashback of Charles, after the fight:  _ Sectumsempra. _

He snapped his hand into a fist to stop it from shaking.

“You almost told him,” Eurus said softly, sing-song. “He almost got through. He was so close.”

_ I know, I know, please stop talking.  _ They both knew. 

Eurus kept talking. “He won’t forgive you, Sherlock. He’ll try, and he’ll pretend he’s fine with what you’ve done, and he’ll pretend he’s fine with you hiding it from him, even though he thought you trusted him, and he trusted you in that, but you still didn’t tell him.”

Without removing the shield, Sherlock turned back to Eurus.

“Fuck you,” he snarled.

Mycroft’s fingers twitched ever so slightly. Eurus raised an eyebrow. 

“You know it’s your fault.” She smiled faintly at how Sherlock’s face froze, distraught, for a millisecond before quickly turning impassive, before turning her attention away from Sherlock and towards Mycroft.

_ “You _ must know by now?”

Mycroft’s brow was lined with concentration, and only someone who knew him very well would be able to see the frustration underneath.

“No?” Eurus closed her eyes for a second. “Perhaps this will help.”

There was a loud crack.

Sherlock’s breath hitched ever so slightly.

“Good morning, mistress,” said the house elf _.  _ Sherlock flashed back once again, this time to Christmas, the chocolates and the house elf he knew so well. 

_ “Oh _ —” Sherlock breathed out. “You  _ bastard.” _

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said under his breath. He looked exceedingly pale.

Sherlock made an indignant noise. Was he really going to berate him for  _ dirty language  _ right now? 

“I don’t give a  _ fuck _ ,” he snarled, “John is on the  _ floor  _ and  _ everyone _ is here and I don’t  _ know _ why you look so fucking _ shocked.” _

Eurus studied Sherlock very carefully. “Don’t fret so, Sherlock. You’re missing a piece.” She tilted her head to Mycroft. “Perhaps your brother will elaborate?”

Sherlock slowly turned to look at Mycroft. 

Mycroft’s head was, for once, not held high.

“A few years ago, I stumbled across a portkey. You know it—you found it a while after. That group you saw, their specialty was creating new spells, from the bright little tricks to the darkest curses. 

“The Watsons were the only parents to have a child, and a house elf, too.”

Sherlock shoved his hands into his hair and shut his eyes tightly.

“Oh, dear,” said Eurus. “You’d better baby it down.”

Mycroft averted his eyes from Sherlock, but continued speaking in a manner addressed to him. “You saw them Vow. They were promising to never use that spell, and I made you do so, too—but you found a loophole, and your curiosity got to the better of you. We know the rest.” He glanced at John’s hand and the stone basin, the pensieve. “He does, now, too.”

“It was quite difficult, you know,” Eurus said in a lilting voice. “Fitting together all the memories.”

Mycroft glanced at Eurus with a tiny look of irritation, and Sherlock marvelled at it, how his brother, even if it was the farthest away from the truth it could get, could still, at that moment, look at Eurus like she was just any normal person who was just the tiniest bit bothering him. 

Mycroft cleared his throat. “A couple days after that, there was a fire in this Forest, one that supposedly killed the Watson family. It was very concentrated, but very strong, and it was not broadcasted to outside the Ministry—even you, Sherlock. 

“I was certain this was the job of someone in the group. Perhaps they tried to continue the spell, perhaps the Watsons found out and tried to put a stop to it. I was a fool not to realise.” He glared at the house elf who stood silent. “The Watsons were quite—ah, superior—to their servants. That one had the most motive. Their house elf.”

Eurus shook her head. “You’re so condescending—it was no wonder you couldn’t work it out.”

Mycroft looked pained, but kept going. “He continued the spell, and used it on the Watsons, creating the fire as a decoy. It worked. He wiped their memories and cast them to the muggle world. But somehow, John Watson still had his magic.” Mycroft looked back to John, and frowned.

“Would you like to know how?” Eurus turned to the house elf and patted him on the head. The house elf flinched horribly but did not move otherwise.

He spoke in a tiny voice, “I didn’t cast the spell fully. It was the candles. The fire triggered his magic.”

“Yes, all very fascinating,” Sherlock said through gritted teeth. His eyes had not moved away from John.

“You must know by now,” Eurus said, cloyingly sweet. 

Sherlock’s eyes darted to Eurus, then to Mycroft, then to the entrance, then back to John.

“Don’t,” said Eurus tiredly. 

Sherlock’s eyes dimmed, and flared with anger. He sat down cross legged beside John, and closed his eyes.

“Five minutes,” Eurus declared.

* * *

At first he panicked, screamed, and pinched himself multiple times. But then he realised that the tiny little curly-headed boy could not see nor hear nor touch him (and neither could anyone, or anything, else) and he came to the conclusion that he must be 1. dreaming, 2. dead, 3. some weird magical thing he didn’t know about, or 4. in a pensieve, and when the tiny little curly-headed boy turned out to be Sherlock, he was quite sure it was that.

Maybe this was a follow up gift _ ,  _ he thought—maybe, Sherlock was finally trusting John enough to let him know what the hell happened, because no one just becomes like Sherlock without something happening.

It proved quite difficult to follow along, however, as immediately Sherlock was whirled off and away, away from the fences and the button and into a strange room.

And when John’s eyes met a pair of the kneeling wizards, his heart stuttered, then erupted in a wild frenzy.

But then Sherlock was grabbed and whirled away once again, and John cursed out loud and punched the air, because he just needed one more goddamn second, because those two people back there, they looked very,  _ very, _ familiar. 

He watched the two brothers banter, and paced back and forth through the kneeling pair with Lestrade in the middle.

He watched Sherlock sit in his room and point his wand at the butterfly board.

He watched him do it at the drawer, in the other room.

He watched as someone flashed into view, a bulls-eye on Sherlock’s wand, screaming and writhing on the floor.

He watched Sherlock’s face morph with horror, and as he turned and fled, hands covering his eyes, the figure on the floor choked and moaned. Even with her features twisted in pain, she bore an eerie resemblance to the boy who had run away.

John felt phantom fingers brushing through his hair and suddenly tightening into a fist upon an innocent, casual mentioning. 

Sherlock’s sister lay still on the floor.

Then, her eyes shot open and her breath caught. She scrambled up with nothing but a wince, shaking fingers grabbing at her wand. She opened her drawer and pulled out a thick bound maroon book, placing in on the desk.

_ “W-Wingardium Leviosa,”  _ she whispered.

The wand trembled violently.

_ “Wingardium Leviosa,”  _ she hissed, jabbing her wand directly onto the book.

She whirled around and pointed it at her pillow, said the spell once more.

The book and the pillow lay still.

Her face froze, then crumpled into a mask of fury. She grabbed the end of her wand with her other hand, and pulled. 

The wand remained straight and sturdy.

With a snarl, she sucked in a breath and tried again.

It snapped cleanly in half. A dragon heartstring dangled down the broken middle. The girl stared at it with hateful eyes.

-+-+-+-

The little house elf sprinted across the forest floor. His eyes were enormous, and illuminated in them was the reflection of fire, red and orange, curling around the dark green pine trees and turning them into ash. He cried out a spell and a tree next to him burst into flames.

His knobby arms were cradled around a small bundle, which was shrieking with a force that was unbelievable considering its size.

The elf looked over his shoulder and suddenly swerved to his left, disappearing into bushes of tiny black flowers.

Breathing hard, he unswaddled the blankets around the bundle to reveal a screaming baby, face scrunched with confusion and displeasure, kicking out his little legs with all his force.

The house elf looked at him, and his face froze for just a second.

“I command you,” a voice suddenly rang out, frighteningly close, “to come back this instant. You will not accomplish anything in this.”

Something pinged in John’s mind with that voice, and he tried desperately to focus on both that thought and to view this memory simultaneously, but it proved impossible and John surrendered to watching the house elf.

With a glare cast to the direction of the voice, the house elf’s face hardened and he looked back at the boy. 

“If only you knew what your parents have done to me,” he sighed, and brushed back the baby’s damp blond hair. 

Two people burst through the bushes just as he was finishing the spell, that spell, that goddamned spell John’s heard so many times already, and once more now, and once more again.

Cutting off at the last syllable, the house elf whirled around in a blur and immediately yelled it out.

The two intruders collapsed and ceased to move, but their chests rose and fell slowly. John found his feet rooted to the burning forest floor, but even from a distance he could recognise his parents.

The baby was screaming now, so loud and so piercing John wanted to plug his ears had he not been unable to move.

The tiny house elf, dressed in rags, took a deep breath and stared at his destruction. A single sock, much too big and dotted with pink hearts, dangled off his right foot.

-+-+-+-

Sherlock’s sister towered over a small creature.

“You didn’t get away,” she whispered, “I know about the fire, and I know about John Watson.”

The house elf’s face turned to horror. He began to shake.

“Please, miss,” he whispered. “Those days are no longer mine. Please!” Tears filled his huge eyes. When Sherlock’s sister’s face ceased to soften, he shuffled back and gave the other a deep bow. “Mistress.”

She smiled.

-+-+-+-

He gasped and opened his eyes, scrambling to a stand. He blinked rapidly as his mind tried to sort out his place once again. He paced the room multiple times. His room.

He squinted at his door, and then he scowled. 

“You’ve been in my  _ room?”  _ he muttered.

John’s head throbbed painfully, ebbing away before surging up once more. Subconsciously from all his mornings spent here, he floated his way to his door and down the stairs.

The silence was disturbing. John clicked his tongue, just to disrupt the eeriness, as he made his way to the kitchen.

He stopped when he saw that Sherlock bloody Holmes was sat down at the table.

John was a couple metres away, looking at the other boy and thinking that, if Sherlock had broken into his house, he really would be creeped. But, after what he had just seen, who’s to say that he knew him at all?

Sherlock raised his head and looked directly at John.

“Woah,” John said, instinctively backing up. 

Sherlock’s eyes remained on John’s. That wasn’t right. 

“John,” he said, voice strangely urgent. “I know you’re confused and I know you’re trying not to think about what you saw, because you don’t want to know about what I did. You don’t want to hate me.”

John couldn’t say anything but, “This isn’t supposed to happen.”

“You have my word, John Watson, that I am telling the truth. I didn’t know what the spell did, I didn’t know what I was going to do to my sister, I didn’t know your parents were in that group or anything about their house elf or the fire or anything, I didn’t know.”

John frowned.

“I’m sorry, this isn’t…” he squinted at Sherlock. “Hold on.”

He walked closer  _ (walked, _ not floated) and placed a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. It stayed.

“This isn’t…”

Sherlock furrowed his brow for a second, and then understood and nodded. “No, I’m real.”

“Oh,  _ shit,”  _ John said with emphasis. The floor gave out beneath him and he opened his eyes to Sherlock hovering above him, eyes huge and pupils like pinpoints.

“John,” said Sherlock, with the same urgency. “You’re awake.”

“Yes,” he responded, propping himself up with an arm and looking around. “Why am I lying down in the middle of the forest?”

Sherlock didn’t answer. He had a hand around John’s wrist. John watched, thinking that his pulse must be completely bizarre and the most abnormal it can ever get, but Sherlock seemed to either not realise or not care. His fingers were trembling against his wrist.

“Sherlock?” John gave him a closer look. 

“Hmm?” Blinking and focusing his eyes back to John, Sherlock nodded again. “Hi.”

“Why—” John looked at Sherlock, his twitches, constricted pupils, his overall increase in weirdness, and sighed. “How much cocaine did you take?”

Sherlock lifted a hand and flicked a leaf off the back of John’s head. “A lot.”

“For fuck’s sake,” John muttered.

Sherlock laughed, and brushed a strand of hair out of John’s face.

John waited for a full five seconds before acknowledging the elephant in the room.

“Okay, what the hell is going on?”

Sherlock’s hands were restless, tapping fingers on John’s head, squeezing his shoulders, brushing away dust that, even if there were any, must be long gone by now. 

“You know more than me, you saw the pensieve didn’t you, you know everything I do, and more,” he grabbed John’s wrists and continued talking, rapid fire,

“Your parents made a spell and their house elf continued it after the Vow and so did I and he did it on you and your parents, and I did it on Eurus, and your parents found out and there was a fire, the candles on your cake, that’s why you’re afraid of fire, and you lost your memories, and Eurus was stripped and vindictive and she got her revenge didn’t she, and you could’ve been a brilliant wizard but I just had to get Treasure Island didn’t I, and now you are  _ hurt,”  _ Sherlock took a sharp inhale and John took this chance to raise his hand and gently place it over Sherlock’s mouth.

“I’m hurt?” he said flatly. 

Sherlock swatted John’s hand away. “Yes, you are hurt, again, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” His eyes were wide and wild.

John tightened his lips. “Sherlock, you are insane.”

Sherlock began pacing the forest floor, and when John looked closer he saw a bit of a worn path where he was stepping.

“I’m not insane, I’m just  _ high.” _

“Yes, and way too much,” John said under his breath as he watched this extraordinary person thread both hands into his hair and pace back and forth, back and forth, all the while muttering nonsense.

He watched and waited for another full five seconds before quickly walking over and stopping right in front of Sherlock, who immediately swerved to the side, and John made an exasperated noise and grabbed him by the shoulders.

“Please stop,” he said slowly and clearly.

Sherlock looked at John for a couple seconds with a disoriented look. John felt a pang in his chest but persevered, holding him steady in his gaze, until Sherlock’s eyes focused and his breathing slowed. 

“Okay,” he said, and sat down on the path.

John studied Sherlock carefully and sighed. He sat down beside him, then changed his mind and shuffled around until their backs were pressing together.

He breathed deeply, closing his eyes. He could feel Sherlock’s shoulder muscles tense against him, but he persisted and after a minute, they relaxed.

_ In, and out.  _

His heart was pounding way too hard, way too fast, but for Sherlock’s sake he kept his breathing slow and steady. 

After he felt Sherlock begin to mimic his breaths, he waited another minute before carefully raising his arms up, and covering his face with both hands.

_ “What the hell,” _ he murmured.

You would think, after so many times, he would be used to this, these rushes, these  _ landslides, _ of information, but absolutely not. John’s head was pounding painfully and he rested it against Sherlock and tried, once more, to sort out his thoughts.

His parents were in that group thing, that strange cult. They were doing the Unbreakable Vow, John recalled. And Sherlock saw them, and tried the spell  _ they vowed on never doing.  _

_ Bloody hell, Sherlock,  _ John thought, feeling his back against his.

And he took away his sister’s magic. And the house elf took away his.  _ But not completely _ .

And that house elf looked rather familiar. 

He was beginning to understand what had happened; of course he was still hopelessly confused, but at least to some extent it made sense. A bit.

_ Small world,  _ John thought, and couldn’t help but smile, despite everything he’d learned.

“Sherlock?” he said softly.

There was no answer. John turned his head around slightly.

Sherlock’s eyes were closed. His breathing was slow, but even in his slumber his brow was furrowed, his mouth pulled into a frown.

John watched for a moment, then very carefully shifted his position back around so they were leaning against one another once again.

He closed his eyes and breathed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo! There we go. I've actually been planning this backstory ever since the beginning. *Very* nice to finally get it all out.  
> 


	27. A Dyslexic Squid

His first taste of coherency was the sensation of falling.

He cried out as his back hit the ground—the dead-leaf riddled, twigs-and-rocks ground—knocking the wind out of him. In that position, he stared at the towering trees, blinking slowly as his eyes adjusted to the (very scarce) light.

“John!” a face appeared over the rustling leaves. “Sorry, sorry,” it mumbled, placing a hand on John’s back and returning him to a sitting position.

John followed this barely, blinking and rubbing his eyes as the other looked him over with a sharp scrutiny.

“Sherlock?”

Running a hand down John’s spine, Sherlock hummed a bit, seemingly not noticed that the other had spoken. He let out a sigh. “You’re alright.”

He then took John by the arm and helped him up. Then he began to walk, pulling him along.

John allowed this, if only because he was trying to get back his muddled memory.

When he did, he began to tug back against Sherlock, who ignored it and simply walked with a bit more force than before.

“Sherlock,” John said with a slight edge of warning.

“Come on, we’ll miss it,” Sherlock said dismissively, breaking off into a stride the best he could with John refusing to move.

“Sherlock!” John snatched his arm away and glared at Sherlock, who paused mid-step.

“Sherlock, please,” he said sharply, annoyed. “You can’t expect me to just go along and frolic through the forest with you when—” he stammered—“when whatever happened, just happened.”

Sherlock was looking at the forest floor, biting his lip and drumming his fingers on his leg. Finally, he looked up.

“Okay,” he said quietly. “You can ask me anything. I promise to answer honestly.”

“Oh, okay,” John said, a bit quickly, a bit startled.

“You woke up,” was what he decided to say first—not _are you still high_ or _you took away your own sister’s magic with a spell my parents made_ or _why do I still like you?_

“Yes,” said Sherlock with a curt nod.

“Well.” John raised his eyebrows. “Why? It’s like three in the morning.”

“Five thirty.”

“You don’t normally wake up at five thirty in the morning.”

“I don’t normally wake up at all.”

John stifled a laugh with a smile. “No, you don’t. So why now?”

Sherlock made a tiny exasperated noise, and gestured to the general vicinity of where he was previously dragging John over to.

“The sunrise,” he said, as if that answered everything.

“What about it?” John insisted, definitely and exponentially more exasperated than Sherlock.

Sherlock blew out a breath through tight lips.

“I wanted to see it with you,” he said, a bit like he was reciting it.

“The—” John gave him a closer look, wondering if the cocaine was still in his system. “The sunrise? Why?”

“Because—” Sherlock gritted his teeth and shoved a hand in his hair. He shut his eyes for a second before opening them again with a renewed determination.

“Because I’ve never seen it before, because I didn’t care about the sun and _Astronomy_ but the circumstances have drastically changed in the past six hours, and I want to do now, and with you.” He frowned. “There’s a metaphor somewhere in there, too.”

John sucked in a breath, standing there with what must have been the most confused look on his face he’d ever had. (On second thought, maybe not _the most_ —he’s had so many of them. But it at least placed somewhere.)

There was a pause. Sherlock cocked his head and examined him carefully.

“Not good?” He shrugged. “Or we could forgo that and I’ll just answer your questions while we head back to Hogwarts.”

“What, oh, no no,” John rushed out. He gave Sherlock a quick smile and took a couple steps towards what he thought was the way they were heading before. “I didn’t quite get all that, but I’ve never seen a proper sunrise before either, actually, so why not. Let’s go.”

“That’s the wrong way,” Sherlock said blatantly.

“Well—wherever you were going, then. And I still get to ask questions, by the way.”

“Fair enough.” Sherlock began walking, this time not dragging John by the arm.

John followed along, trying terribly hard to sort out everything in his mind.

He noticed that he wasn’t really shocked, or angry, or internally screaming or anything. Honestly, it all just just became quite blasé—John guessed that if he had learnt all this before Hogwarts and magic and all that shebang, he’d probably just pass out from sheer shock.

Which is why his next question was simply, “So what happened?”

Sherlock turned his head, somehow still walking without crashing into the trees (which John probably would’ve done, maybe even without taking his eyes off the path), and raised an eyebrow.

“That’s an extremely vague question with many varying possibilities for its answer, and I’m quite sure you know a multitude of those answers already.”

John blew a raspberry. “Fine.” He searched his mind for a more specific question that answered _his question,_ which was, truthfully, really just _what the hell is going on?_

Sherlock turned slightly to the right and continued walking. They were now on an incline. Blades of grass tickled John’s ankles and left droplets of morning dew.

“Say what you know,” Sherlock suggested. “It’s likely you just need to organise the information.”

“Okay.” John took a deep breath. “Whew, so, uh, this is gonna take a while. So. My parents, they started—”

“The Terin’s did, actually; your parents joined later.”

“Right. Well, they were in a group, and they made an Unbreakable Vow not to use the spell _furantae_ —” Sherlock flinched at that ever-so-slightly, but didn’t say anything—“but you overheard because, well, you found the portkey and went there and overheard _urantae_ . And Mycroft made you promise never to say what you heard, because I’m guessing he knew about it, but you only heard _urantae._ So you tried the spell on your sister, and took away her magic.”

Sherlock interrupted then. “I wanted a book,” he said, eyes cast to his feet. “Treasure Island. _Furantur_ is to steal— _magicae_ is magic. Clearly, I didn’t realise that last bit. She always had a knack for knowing things before it happened, and she did then. She had an invisibility charm and was standing in the way of me and that book.”

“Oh,” John merely said, trying to slot this new piece of info into his tangled web of knowledge.

“Continue,” Sherlock said curtly, clearly wishing to move on.

John nodded. “Your sister—well, I’ll go to the other thing right now, I guess. While everyone in the group promised not to use that spell, there was one who didn’t—my parents’ house elf.”

“Mycroft,” Sherlock suddenly interrupted, “he knew about this; that someone was out there who could still cast the spell. But he was too condescending to even acknowledge the thought that all that was the work of a small house elf.”

“Right.” John nodded. “And that small house elf was just the person who had the most motive. I don’t think my parents were very kind to him.”

“They tortured him for the slightest mistake, and sometimes just for entertainment,” Sherlock said matter-of-factly.

John nodded again, weakly. “So he took me, and ran into this forest, casting a fire as a decoy.”

“Yes.” Sherlock suddenly took John’s arm and led him to a clearing. “Right here.”

John stopped in his tracks. He stared at the clearing, which was just a patch of grass, with no sign of the struggle that had happened. He looked at it hard, trying to remember, but aside from the familiarity from the pensieve, there was nothing but a tiny twinge in his chest.

“He also took my memory, and when my parents tried to stop him, he wiped theirs as well—along with the magic. The fire was a decoy that supposedly killed us. He put us into the muggle world, where I grew up.”

“But he didn’t cast the spell fully,” Sherlock continued where John left off. “His words cut off as your parents arrived. Their memories and magic are long gone, but not you and yours.” He turned to John and gave him a small smile—but not mocking, not overly forced—comforting. “Your candles from your late-fifteen-and-a-half-birthday cake triggered your magic because of the fire. Your parents, despite the memory wipe, still had a, say, imprint left over—they avoided fire like the plague. Your candles were the only fire you’d come in contact with since you were a baby, and it set off a, as you say, domino effect. That’s why the Sorting Hat didn’t say anything—because you weren’t, per se, fully magicked.”

“Let’s move on,” John said, turning away from his past that he could not remember. Sherlock nodded and they took off once again.

“And here the two lines meet,” John continued. “My parents’ house elf was working at Hogwarts. He saw me—he looked terrified for, hmm, a split second, I remember now. He was shocked I still had my magic.”

“But,” Sherlock picked up, “he was traumatised from his past. He swore off dark magic, and when he realised you were at Hogwarts, he wanted to let it slide—his past was no longer his business.”

“Until your sister arrived,” John said quietly.

“Eurus,” Sherlock muttered, speaking faster now. “Without her magic, she could only watch. When you arrived everything slotted into place. She confronted the house elf, and he, terrified of being found out, agreed to do what she said.”

“Right.” They had been steadily walking on the same incline, and John could now see where the path rounded off to flat ground.

“She left a note on my pillow,” John continued, “and led me into a cave—the Molly cave, by the way—”

“Molly was no part of this,” Sherlock said sharply. “Those past cases were normal, everyday little mysteries. Eurus was clever, very clever. She set little reminders—the cave, the flowers, your _Sectumsempra.”_

“Okay. So she _Sectumsempra_ -ed me then, and took me into the pensieve.”

They reached the top of the hill. It was still dark, but John could see a faint blue tinge on the horizon. He approached the dropoff on the hill, and looked down.

Hogwarts stood right beneath their feet. Bright spots shone from lamps and magical lights, and the dark waters flowed smoothly, glittering in the moonlight.

John almost—almost—lost his train of thought, but he quickly regained his pace and turned back to Sherlock.

“So, what about you? What happened after?” He snapped his fingers. “That’s the question I should’ve asked.”

Sherlock’s eyes were fixed on the castle. “Eurus set a portkey in a shortcut she knew I would take. She sabotaged Mycroft’s cameras. Both him and I arrived at the cave.”

“What did she do?” John pressed.

“Mycroft wasn’t needed and he went away soon after, but I doubt he’s not watching right now—Eurus, too. I conjured up the cocaine afterwards and took you to a clearing to rest.”

_“What happened?”_

“She would’ve killed you,” Sherlock said matter-of-factly.

“Sherlock,” John said urgently, with a growing alarm.

Sherlock smiled. He took his wand out from the inside of his robe.

“It’s a fair revenge,” he said, and pointed his wand at John. _“Imperio.”_

_Don’t move, John._

Oh, no.

He knew this curse, he remembered it in class, and he remembered how he jumped over one, two, three chairs in a row and then karate chopped a desk, later laughing to try to rid the eerie feeling that someone had just _controlled_ him like that, and how he couldn’t do anything against it at all.

 _Hand in your pocket, dear,_ Sherlock murmured in his head. _You’re okay, don’t worry_.

And now he tried to fight it back, with more strength than he ever had before. But the voice was so soft, and so kind—and so unlike Sherlock.

That one observation gave him back one moment of control, which he used up by letting out a single gasp before Sherlock took a step closer, fixed his gaze with John’s, and added even more charm into his voice.

_Take out your wand._

John had never been so helpless.

 _Yes, that’s it_ — _straight at me. There you go._

John screamed inside his head.

 _Say it,_ Sherlock urged. _Come on, John, you can do it._

 _No,_ John whispered back, panic rising in his chest. He looked at Sherlock, but his eyes wouldn’t focus. _Stop it, Sherlock._

And Sherlock wanted to, he wanted to stab his own wand-wielding arm until it fell limp, and he felt an unfamiliar burning surge up in his eyes, but he held them steady with John’s and forced his shaking arm to still, to point.

 _Please,_ John thought with tears that couldn’t come.

Sherlock gritted his teeth. _Do it, John. Say it._

John gathered all his strength and looked straight into Sherlock.

 _“Please,”_ he whispered.

And Sherlock was crying, the few tears escaping and trickling down his cheeks, but he stood his ground and gave John’s mind one last shove.

_Say it!_

“Furantae,” John choked out, and Sherlock felt his grasp on John’s mind slip away.

His last thought was not with fear, nor hate, but peace. He smiled, because Eurus was horrible, yes, but she was always true to her word. John Watson was safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One out of two chapters today.


	28. Not Good?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is part two of today's update—the chapter was too long so I split it. Read the chapter before this!

Time slowed to a crawl. As the cursed word forced itself out John’s mouth, his wand let out a final jerk and a golden ray, studded with black and red ribbons, shot out and hit Sherlock square in the chest.

Sherlock dropped his wand and fell to the floor with a smile on his face.

John seemed to process all this in slow motion—and suddenly he snapped out of it and the meandering clock of reality was suddenly at break-neck speed.

He gasped and shuddered for half a second, his body violently protesting the previous takeover by the wizard that would never cast another spell again—and protesting even more so, as he immediately staggered over to the said wizard before he had even fully gained control of himself.

“Sherlock,” John mumbled, dropping to his knees and grabbing the other’s wrist, unable to find a pulse because his own was so loud.

Sherlock’s chest rose up and down. John felt a flash of relief before it was quickly replaced with more panic and more urgency.

He turned and grabbed his wand that he had dropped sometime, he couldn’t remember, and, despite his mind screaming at him to never use that bloody wand _ever again_ —he gritted his teeth and swept it over Sherlock’s body, muttering spells through voice breaks and suppressed sobs.

 _“Damn it, Sherlock,”_ he breathed, shoving a hand into his hair and feeling like tearing it all off. He forced himself to blow out a breath slowly and looked up at the sky, which was beginning to turn a navy blue, the stars fading away into the morning.

Swallowing hard, John put his wand on the ground to his left and curled his hands into fists before snapping them back to open palms, combing back Sherlock’s hair, feeling his forehead, tapping the floor, his leg, ripping grass from the ground.

“Damn it,” he repeated in a mumble.

Sherlock stirred. His breathing seemed to become less shallow. His fingers twitched ever-so-slightly.

John pressed his lips together and stared.

“You’re a fucking idiot, you know that?” He yanked a small yellow buttercup from the grass and threaded it through Sherlock’s hair. “You—I just—” he made a noise in the back of his throat, and, overwhelmed and overcome by another wave of emotion, grabbed his wand from the ground, held both ends, and snapped it cleanly in half.

He pulled it apart slowly, watching the unicorn tail hair trail off the ends.

 _“Fuck,”_ he said, and drew his knees to his chest, put his head in his hands, and felt the tears seep through his robe.

It was only about a minute after, that he was interrupted and felt Sherlock’s arm, which was against his leg, shift slightly.

“John,” he heard, and felt a hand on his shin. “John, are you alright?”

And John scoffed, and then he laughed, albeit hysterically.

“Are you alright?” he heard again, and felt the hand run through his hair and another grab his wrist.

 _“No,”_ John said in a muffled voice through his knees.

A sigh, and then those hands were tugging at his, gently moving them away from his face, lifting up his chin with a quick touch on his cheek.

Sherlock peered at John with eyes that for once revealed his concern, and settled down beside him.

“I did what I needed to,” he said softly.

John didn’t say anything. His jaw was set with stubbornness and his eyes were straight ahead, looking at the castle, which was beginning to come into detail, now, with the fading night and the growing light.

Sherlock paused, and tapped his fingers on his leg.

“Eurus gave me two choices,” he finally said. “I could refuse everything, and leave. She would’ve destroyed Mycroft’s reputation—and mine, too, if I had one; a good one, that is—and then killed you.

“Actually, that wasn’t really a choice, it was really just an assumption, but I’m rather certain it was true. Other than that I had two choices.

“I could take your magic, or you could take mine. That was it.” Sherlock paused here, and John wanted to scream, because how could Sherlock _possibly_ know that he was about to interrupt just then?

“You made the wrong choice,” John said quietly.

Sherlock smiled. “With all due respect, I am absolutely certain that you are wrong there.”

“Sherlock!” John couldn’t help it; he jerked his head over to look at him. “I lived without magic for fifteen fucking years, and I lived them perfectly fine. You’re a bloody _pureblood,_ and—your parents!”

“I have took that into consideration.”

John suddenly turned to completely face Sherlock, and grabbed him by the shoulders.

“I’m not joking,” he hissed. “I don’t know how in the world you’re so bloody _calm_ , because I am _freaking out!_ Sherlock, do you understand what has happened? You just lost your magic! What are you going to do?”

Sherlock looked stricken for a millisecond, but it quickly dissolved into an all-too-familiar mask of stony calm.

“I’ll work something out,” he said, shrugging. “Live in London as a muggle, solve crimes for a living—I still have my deductive skills.” He tried his attempt at a small smile. “I could move in with you.”

John sputtered, and gave up. He turned his head back to Hogwarts. The sky was a pale rosy hue now, and he could just barely see a sliver of sun, peeking over the horizon.

“Really though,” he muttered. “Why?”

“I cast the spell on Eurus,” Sherlock said simply.

“It wasn’t your fault she was smack dab in the middle of you and that book!”

“I should’ve known—and I shouldn’t’ve even attempted it in the first place. It was a proper and courteous trade back.”

“Okay, you know what, forget that.” John tried another tactic. “Look—I suck at magic.”

“Yes, you do,” Sherlock agreed. He laughed when John gave him a look of disbelief, despite the circumstances.

“But, that’s the point,” he continued. “I’ve already fulfilled all my possibilities.”

“You’re rubbish with a broom, though.”

Sherlock huffed. “Other than that.”

“But you, John Watson—you have so much more to do. The first fifteen years of your life, you only lived half of what you could have. You can make up all that wasted time.

“This is the end of my magic,” he continued, “but it’s the start of something else.”

“Sherlock,” John said, but Sherlock made an impatient noise, reached out a hand, and tapped John’s lip with a finger.

“Shush, John, I’m trying to make a dramatic speech here. Don’t ruin it.”

John gave him an incredulous look, and then giggled. Sherlock ignored it and persevered with his speech.

“We’ve switched perspectives,” he kept going. “I can experience how you lived your life, and fulfill my possibilities with the knowledge of the muggle world. You can expand your magic to your full potential.

“Yes, I lost my magic. But I have earned something in doing so. Your trust.” He gave John a small sideways smile. “Unless sacrificing my magic and revealing my backstories is still not enough for you to trust me in the fact that I trust you?”

“Yes,” John said forcefully. “I mean no. Yes, I trust you, Sherlock, I’ve trusted you since we _met,_ you dolt.”

Sherlock smirked. “You mean I could’ve just taken away your magic instead? I’m joking,” he added, right as John was about to scream _yes_ —“And that first question was rhetorical, and I can’t go off on a tangent _now.”_

“You,” he said, louder now, speaking faster. “You will be carrying the magic of both of us.” He took out his wand and shoved it into John’s hands.

“There is a silver lining in every cloud,” he declared, waving his hand at the sky, the clouds, the sun rising over the castle tops. “And perhaps something has ended, but there is always light at the end of the tunnel. This is the end of a chapter but merely the beginning of a book. There will come dark nights, but the nights will always pass and a new day will always come and the sun will rise.”

He said this all in one breath, which he let out now. He glanced at the scenery atop the hill—the sky was a brilliant crimson red, light streaking across the sky from the sun, now in full view over Hogwarts.

Sherlock turned to John and smiled.

“Ah, there’s the metaphor I was talking about.”

John’s mind spun in circles as it chased for a reaction that could possibly be matched with what Sherlock had just done. It failed.

Sherlock’s smile turned to a frown. He cocked his head. “Still not good?”

John tried to speak multiple times before succeeding.

“Did you plan all this?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Depends on what you mean by plan.”

“The—” John put a hand to his forehead and thought for another second, before continuing. “The timing of the sunrise. Did you specifically time your metaphorical speech to exactly align with the sunrise? Was that why you woke me up at five thirty?”

Sherlock opened his mouth, then seemed to change his mind. “I don’t think the answer to that is the one you want to hear.”

This time John couldn’t make out a coherent response. He sputtered out a cross between a laugh, cry, and sigh, grabbed Sherlock’s shoulders, and pulled him in.

He hugged him fiercely, forgetting, and not bothering, to tiptoe around anything anymore.

“You are unbelievable,” he said.

“I really hope you do believe me,” Sherlock said quietly. His arms slowly, very slowly, came up, and tentatively rested on John’s back.

“My god, Sherlock,” John laughed, and leaned his head on Sherlock’s shoulder.

They stayed like that for a while.

Surprisingly, it was John who spoke first.

“We’re gonna be late for class,” he mumbled.

“John,” Sherlock said with a sigh, “while I appreciate your dedication, I am certain this will allow an exclusion.”

“So do I just use your wand from now on?”

“I’m sure you’ll get use to it.”

“Okay.” John reluctantly tapped a finger on Sherlock’s back. “We should still get going.”

Sherlock made a noise in his throat, something between a groan and a sigh, and loosened his arms. John felt a little twinge of regret at the absence that followed, but it quickly evaporated when Sherlock then proceeded to shift so that they were side by side, and reached an arm around and pulled John in once more.

He closed his eyes, shoulders loosening, and seemed to relax for the first time in ages.

John’s breathing was shallow. He exhaled slowly, raising an arm, and fiddled with the buttercup that remained in Sherlock’s hair.

“Is this what normal friends do?” he murmured.

Sherlock shifted slightly so that his head was on John’s shoulder.

“I don’t know, John, you tell me. But considering the past events, I think I deserve this.”

John bit his inner cheek for a moment, looking at Sherlock, eyes shut and breathing calm and steady, and tried to make sense of it all.

After a minute of this, he gave up and resorted to watching the sunrise, hearing the whistles and calls of birds and his surroundings

coming to life. After all, he reasoned, this would probably be the last time Sherlock would let himself get any proper sleep in a long time following.

“Sure, Sherlock,” he mumbled with a small laugh, and shifted so that they were a bit closer, and they stayed for a bit longer.


	29. Magi-Me-No-More

On the way back, John kept on stealing little glances at Sherlock. For multiple reasons, really. Just… thinking.

Without looking away from the space ahead of him, Sherlock spoke.

“Keep your eyes to the front, or on me—one but not both. It’s distracting.”

John immediately flushed and averted his eyes so they were watching his feet pittering to catch up with Sherlock’s strides. 

Sherlock grinned, looking thoroughly pleased.

John pressed his lips together and looked at the trees in front of him, slightly miffed.

Sherlock certainly didn’t seem very worried. 

John sighed, feeling the last dregs of adrenaline seeping away. _ Honestly! _ It was June, he had  _ just  _ gotten used to magic and wizards and all that shebang, and the muggle club was taking off, and with two weeks left of the school year  _ this  _ happens. The past eight months probably shortened his lifespan more than his entire childhood.

And why the hell was Sherlock so calm? His magic was  _ gone, _ for God’s sake—

Sherlock’s eyes snapped over to John’s, wide and urgent, riddled with frustration, panic, and anger.

Perhaps there was still some of that adrenaline left, because John felt a buzz begin in his head. He immediately grabbed Sherlock's arm. 

“What’s wrong?” he hissed, filled with alarm.

Sherlock’s eyes returned to the path and he sighed. “Do you know how it feels now?” 

“I—oh.” John rolled his eyes, feeling that buzz go away for good. 

“But honestly, Sherlock,” he continued, deciding  _ screw it,  _ he was going to ask, “how are you so calm about all this? I know you know what you’re going to do. You have all the steps planned out. I know. So can you please just tell me?”

Sherlock’s lips tightened.

“I trust you,” he said, “but I can’t tell you.”

“What the fuck!” shouted John, flinging his arms up into the air.

Sherlock laughed, and put a hand on John’s back, gently steering him into a walk.

John made a disgusted noise and crossed his arms, but walked nonetheless.

“I can’t tell you,” Sherlock continued. “John, I trust you more than I trust myself. But please let me keep this.”

John scowled, made a noise in his throat, and wrung his hands out in front of him.

“Do you know how infuriating you are?” he asked. He was almost not joking. Actually, he sort of wasn’t. He shut his eyes for a second and sighed again, before directing his gaze back to the front and picking up his pace once more. Silently.

Sherlock smiled. “Thank you, John.”

They made the rest of the way back. They started up a silent rally of kicking a single pebble but it skittered away after a moment. John, despite everything, still gave Sherlock quick looks of curiosity and worry, and Sherlock gave them right back—mockingly.

When they reached the castle, Sherlock didn’t slow in the slightest—in fact, he almost sped up.

John took a deep breath, pinched the bridge of his nose, and followed.

Sherlock knocked twice and the door opened, revealing two very familiar people in the doorway.

“Greg!” John blurted out, then looked at the other. “Anderson!” He made several attempts to speak before succeeding. “I can explain.”

“No need,” Anderson said with a nod. “I know.”

“Doubt it,” Sherlock murmured under his breath.

“Due to unexpected circumstances you are excused from your lessons for today. Follow us.”

“Okay, okay,” John muttered, spooked at the austere air, nearly stepping on Lestrade’s shoes in his hurry. Sherlock did the same, but with much less worry and much more indifference. 

As they walked towards the Headmaster’s office, Sherlock leaned closer and touched John’s shoulder.

“You look absolutely terrified,” he whispered. “Do you think I wouldn’t’ve thought this through?”

John huffed and forced himself to arrange his features into a more passive look, making sure to fall back so he was in no more danger of treading over Lestrade’s fancy black shoes.

“Mycroft bought them,” Sherlock noted offhandedly. “He really does like him, eh? Still the ice-man, brother dear?”

“Speak for yourself, Sherlock Holmes,” Lestrade suddenly said aloud, without turning.

Sherlock was immediately silenced. 

They then walked quietly, footsteps echoing, quiet voices of lessons and lectures floating down the halls.

They reached the office. Anderson leaned in to furtively whisper the password (which resulted in all the remaining members of this little group to roll their eyes—the leader of the Ministry of Magic’s boyfriend, brother, and the brother’s best friend? As if they didn’t know the password, or couldn’t find it out).

The door opened with a click and they entered the office. Anderson waved his wand and the fireplace blazed. He then moved to behind the desk, where he sat down on a chair behind it.

“So, Sherlock,” he began. “Magi-me-More? Quite ironic, you must admit.”

Sherlock responded before John could process. 

“It improves your magic as much as cough drops, it must have been quite a shock for you to realise that, and to have a fourteen year old to tell it to you, too. You must have wasted a dozen Galleons in the least.”

It took John a minute, and when he did, he couldn’t help it—he laughed, and looked at Anderson, who was becoming redder by the second.

“That is not true, and it has nothing to do with this,” the Headmaster hissed.

“Wrong both times!” And before Anderson could interrupt, Sherlock began to walk towards the desk, all the while continuing to speak.

“I’m going to spare everyone the dramatics,” he said in that all too familiar tone of voice that suggested John to start focusing more, because otherwise he’d never have a chance of understanding what the hell was going on, “and state what you were undoubtedly going to say, in a much quicker fashion than you would’ve.

“About six months ago, I revealed Magi-me-More as a complete scam. The corporate leader is quite known for his vindictiveness, and has only recently perfected this spell.” He smiled, not pleasantly. “Is there anything I missed,  _ Headmaster?” _

And despite how much John was concentrating, his brain halted on the spot. He looked at Sherlock with a raised eyebrow.

Sherlock barely shook his head, but it was enough. John quieted, and simply watched.

Anderson’s eyes were wide. He stood up so him and Sherlock were face to face.

“No, nothing at all, Mr. Holmes,” he said calmly. “But, like you said, I am the Headmaster, and I will be the judge of what will happen to you, and I think you, being a Squib, should return home to your parents and stop your education at Hogwarts at once.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

Lestrade coughed.

“Um, actually,” Lestrade said, sounding a bit pained. He bit his lip. “My—the Ministry of Magic has made their decision. Sherlock shall stay at Hogwarts ‘till summer.”

Anderson tilted his head and frowned. “But Sherlock cannot achieve an O.W.L. without his magic.”

“He doesn’t need to,” Lestrade responded. “Sherlock is staying until the end of this school year, which he then will be able to decide what he will do next.”

“He can join my club!” John blurted out, and stopped when all heads turned. 

He shuffled on his feet and wiped his palms on his robe. “I mean, so, there’s this club I made, it’s this thing, and we do stuff—like, muggle stuff, like books and movies and telly and stuff like that. Sherlock could join.” He coughed. “Er, if he wants.”

“Ah, I’ve heard of that,” Anderson piped up. “That seems like an excellent idea.” 

“That sounds reasonable,” Sherlock said, shrugging.

Anderson smiled. He turned to Sherlock and extended a hand. “Mr. Holmes, my apologies for my outburst. It’s, ah—a sensitive topic.” He smiled wryly.

“You may stay, and attend the classes that do not require magic—join that club John was talking about. You can still do your case-solvings. We certainly still need that.” He smiled. “And I expect that, with your help, John will achieve an excellent result on his O.W.L.s.”

Sherlock nodded, and they shook hands. Lestrade let out a huge breath.

“I do hope we don’t meet again,” he joked feebly, and raised his wand.

“That’s it?” John interrupted this farewell.

Everyone turned. 

“That’s all you’re going to do about it?” John looked at Sherlock, who seemed a bit surprised. 

“Sherlock lost his magic, oh, that’s all fine, just finish this year and then go back to your pureblood parents, it’ll work out perfectly!” John raised his hands. “Sherlock has no magic. What happens after school ends? Why are you guys being so nonchalant?”

There was a pause. John stood, breathing slightly heavily. The other three looked at each other, with a look that suggested John was the unreasonable one.

Finally, Sherlock cleared his throat. 

“They could pity me,” he said quietly. “They could give me funds, and a place to stay. They could mourn over me, and my magic. We could go through everything, bit by bit, saying things I know, and they know I know, I could figure out myself.” He raised an eyebrow at John. “Do you think I’d enjoy that?”

John inhaled sharply. 

God—he wanted to kick himself.

“I’m sorry,” he rushed out, mumbling, fumbling at words.

“I have to go,” Lestrade blurted. He held his wand with an arm that was trembling from the exertion of doing so for the entirety of John and Sherlock’s conversation, and his face was completely red, and he seemed so incredibly awkward in that moment that the tension dissipated almost immediately.

“Yes, you can leave now,” Sherlock said with a nod. A smile broke through. “Tell Mycroft to lay off the Magi-Me-More.”

Lestrade smiled knowingly, and began to turn on the spot.

“Ah, and, Anderson—” Sherlock walked to behind the desk and whispered something in the Headmaster’s ear.

Anderson turned positively scarlet. Sherlock grinned, pointed at a disappearing Lestrade and winked, then lightly tapped John’s arm and walked out of the office.

“Magi-me-More?” John asked once they were safely in the halls.

“Yes.” Sherlock shrugged. “Anderson is desperate to get on the Ministry's good side, there was no doubt he’d agree for me to stay. It’s a reasonable story, and it will be the one that people will think of as true. Mycroft and I decided that family matters, should stay as family matters.” He smiled. “You and Lestrade are honorary. Last resort, obviously. Memory wipes are quite the hassle.”

John rolled his eyes. “And what was that you told Anderson?”

Sherlock smirked. “Anderson thinks Lestrade has a crush on him.” He snickered. “Oh, dear. As if. Mycroft—just imagine.”

And despite all that happened, John dissolved into giggles and elbowed Sherlock, just like before. He thought, as Sherlock suddenly veered off to the left and ushered John into another secret passage, to another unknown place to explore, he supposed, that some things never change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been incredibly busy, and it was all I could do to get this short little aftermath chapter out.  
> Thank you for reading!


	30. (It Is) What It Is

_*Marimba*_

A well-practised hand flopped over to the bedside table and silenced it.

Rubbing the bleariness from her eyes, John Watson’s mother pushed herself to a sitting position with one hand, grabbed her phone with the other and typed in _0331,_ and scrolled through the notifications.

 _You have one new message from_ **_John!!!_ ** _._

She felt  a wave of relief, accompanied with the always-present sense of worry.

_hey mom, theres a new package from jackson arriving today, at, if sherlocks right, 8:20-ish, morning. when you open it its gonna start, uh, talking. dont freak out, thats normal! just listen, and dont worry about me. im fine._

She furrowed her eyebrows. Her eyes darted to the top of the phone: 8:02. She sighed, glanced at the window, and turned over to her side.

“Hey, honey,” she said quietly to the other person on the bed, gently placing a hand on his shoulder.

“Hmm?” John’s father opened his eyes. “Yeah, what is it?”

She passed the phone wordlessly, and watched her husband’s face as he read the message.

John’s father chewed on the side of his cheek, and typed something before handing it back.

_gotcha, will try best not to freak out._

“Okay,” he said. “Now let’s wait twenty minutes and see.”

Sighing, John’s mother nodded, placed the phone back on the bedside table, and lay back down. She closed her eyes, and despite how much she tried not to, did some quick mental math. _Eighteen times sixty, that’s… over a thousand seconds. Oh, dear._

_One, two, three…_

She liked to think of herself as rather _go-with-the-flow._ She didn’t let any setbacks or changes get in her way. But, finding out your son’s a wizard, and sending him to a boarding school with, if the long, very expensive might she add, text messages were correct, magical feasts and love potions? Add that to the infamous Sherlock Holmes and the “cases” she’s been hearing of, and all this sounded very much like a children’s fantasy book series.

_(twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine)_

Obviously, she didn’t _not_ believe it—you’d have to be extremely stubborn to not believe in magic when it appeared right before her eyes, multiple times (including a rather harrowing experience with Floo Powder—turns out there was a wizards’ Bed and Breakfast called Ritemoar, with amazing buttermilk pancakes that the recipe for was now on their fridge.)

But was it unfair for her to _worry?_

She had spoken with Anderson multiple times. _(forty-nine, fifty)_ She had spoken with _John_ even more—er, written, she supposed. More than once she’d suspected he was lying about what happened in Hogwarts—or at least exaggerating. But after visiting the castle and Anderson and also Greg Lestrade, and from what she’d seen during her trip there, John was not exaggerating. Quite the opposite, actually.

_(Seventy.)_

It was rather eerie—when she tried to recall any memory of John displaying any signs of magic (with the exploding cake affair being the exception), she found her past a blur. John Watson, two years old: toddling down the hallway, but his giggle was muted and the edges of the picture in her mind were faded. Something didn’t seem right. All the others proved the same case, all but one.

John Watson, three years old: screaming and sobbing, kicking his little legs and swinging his tiny fists, surrounded by flames, licking the baby blue blanket swaddled round him.

She couldn’t remember; why couldn’t she remember? It must’ve been an accident, perhaps a small mishap with a fireplace?

A dull throbbing arose in her temples. _One hundred._

She groaned quietly and tried to stop counting, which was rather difficult when she was constantly reminding herself to do so.

She made it up to a hundred and fifty, all the while cursing herself and blaring random thoughts in her head to knock off the persistent counting in her head, and it must’ve worked sometime later, as it was a tapping that woke her up again—a peculiar sort of rapping on the bedroom window. She blinked, feeling consciousness take over with each _tap-tap-tapping_. In a moment she recalled the text and sat up immediately to open the window.

There was a great tawny blur and a rush of air on her face, and with a loud hooting an owl flew into the room.

“Woah!” a voice came from the other side of the bed. John’s father sat up, rubbing his eyes and blinking at the rather large bird-of-prey flying through their bedside window. “Oh. Hey, Jackson. Morning.”

The owl gave a hoot of acknowledgement, flapped its wings one last time, then stood, perched atop a lamp.

John’s mother smiled and scratched the bird’s ear. “And how’s Jackie doing today?” she cooed. Jackson hooted back, gently, and rubbed his ears against her wrist. He held up a foot, displaying a red envelope tied with a red ribbon.

She untied the strangely sophisticated knot she had gotten used to (the first time she had came across it she had hopelessly sat on the bed, yanking at the ribbon until it frayed, and then gave up and went downstairs for a pair of scissors. In her reply to the letter she had noted this, and in the next message there was a perfectly drawn diagram of the knot, including how to tie it, untie it, and several variations on the ways to use it. She was quite sure it was not John who had done that, and sent a small thank you to Sherlock Holmes in her reply.)

Removing the ribbon and retrieving the envelope, cool from the brisk morning air, she picked at the seal, and was about to peel it off, when Jackson interrupted with a quiet call. He cocked his head, looking at her with large yellow eyes. He scanned the bedside table and saw a water bottle, which he immediately hopped on to. Then he cooed comfortingly, and gazed at the envelope, then back, again, to John’s mother.

She frowned, and rubbed the envelope in her hands. It was strangely warm. There wasn’t enough time for her to have warmed it so with her hands alone.

She looked at it with furrowed eyebrows, then back up at Jackson. She turned to her husband, who was looking at the envelope with anticipation, having not noticed Jackson’s strange behaviour.

“Well?” he gestured to it. “What’cha waiting for?”

How does someone go about saying they were worried because an owl looked at her strangely? John’s mother nodded, peeled off the rest of the seal, and gingerly opened the envelope.

Immediately, it floated out of her hands.

 _“Hi Mom, hi Dad,”_ John’s voice emanated. “Before you freak out!”

It was a very good thing John said that, because at the moment, his parents were most certainly beginning to freak out. John had warned them of this, but, come on, it had to be at least a tad unnerving to see a talking letter, floating in thin air in the middle of their bedroom.

“Look,” John’s voice continued to say. “It’s called a Howler, and it’s basically the wizard equivalent of an angry phone call, but lazier. Which pretty much sums up the wizarding experience to be honest.” He laughed a bit.

Then there was the sound of another voice, lower, saying something too quiet for them to pick up.

“It’s a bloody joke, alright.” John’s voice again. “Sorry about that. That was… hey actually, give me a second… Sherlock, come here.”

There was a pause, a faint arguing in the background, a groan, and then a new voice rang out through the room.

“Hello.”

John’s mother looked at his father with curious raised eyebrows.

“There’s that infamous Sherlock Holmes,” he responded. “Let’s see how good he is at first impressions.”

Sherlock’s voice paused, became fainter, and hissed, _“what do I say now?”_

John’s voice hissed back, “I don’t know! Talk to them? Impress them or something.”

The voice brightened. “I can do that.”

There was a noticeable pause, and an intake of breath.

“You bought John a dragon stuffie from Tesco when he was four. He tells you not to buy him neon clothing, but he secretly enjoys it, and he likes neon lime green the most—especially if it’s glittery. He has somehow over consumed butter when he was younger, and despises it to this day. He likes orange marmalade, oatmeal raisin cookies, hates undone eggs, and likes his porridge with an ungodly amount of maple syrup.

“John’s mother, you are an accountant. You have medium length auburn hair with brunette dyed on the tips two months ago, which you did not like, which led to you changing to a bob style around two weeks ago. John’s father, you are a teacher. You have blond hair that is beginning to bald. You bought a cheap cologne three weeks ago and have been trying to use it up as quickly as possible.

“You’re trying to stop being so over-protective but find it incredibly difficult, but you’re trying to show that you are not treating John like a child by limiting your parcels to ten items maximum. You two have a steady relationship, and twice a week you—” suddenly the voice was cut off into a muffled shout.

“I think you’ve thoroughly impressed them enough,” John entered, sounding slightly hysterical. Then, in the background: _“Ew, Sherlock, stop that, just because I did it once_ —”

“I thought you told me I needed to explain my deductions,” Sherlock said, sounding slightly annoyed.

“What? Oh, yeah, of course. Go ahead.”

“Right.” Sherlock took another deep inhale, and spoke.

“The tag on the stuffie, who is Sir Lock now, by the way, has been cut, but the sewn-on brandmark patch on the bottom of its foot isn’t.

“He frequently makes put-downs about the neon lime-green coat you sent him, but he still wears it more than he could. He purposely spilled decorative glitter in the Gryffindor common room all over it in December, and refused when I offered to charm it off. The food preferences are easily noted from his breakfast habits.

“In some occasions there will be several strands of hair in the weekly package you send, the auburn ones abruptly changing in length two weeks ago, after the tips turned brunette. There is an abundance of short and blond hairs.

“Judging from the handwriting in the letters and the fact that she writes most of them, John’s mother is an accountant; judging from the pencil and eraser you sent inscribed with the name of a public school, the father is a teacher.

“Starting from three weeks ago the packages began smelling strongly of cologne, cheap cologne, some occasions including bottles of it; too much to be simply thoughtful; you wish to use it up. The parcels have noticeably dwindled from twenty to twenty-five items to ten in the past months and your letters are almost a full page shorter, but judging from how quickly they arrive and how carefully the items are arranged in the box, you have not stopped caring for John at all.

“When John texts his mother, sometimes the reply will be from his father. There is bantering between you two in the letters, but nothing overly serious.” The voice turned teasing. “I’ll spare both you two and John from my last deduction.”

“Thank God,” both the two parents, and John, said simultaneously.

John’s smile could almost be heard. “See what I mean? It’s amazing, right?”

John’s parents looked at each other, wide eyed.

“So that’s why he didn’t eat those eggs,” said the father.

His mother laughed. “I knew he secretly loved that jacket.” She gave her husband an askew grin. “So, how was that first impression?”

John’s father blew out a breath and thought for a while before he spoke. “It’s no wonder he’s the brother of that Ministry of Magic letter-writer.”

And before she could respond, John spoke up—his voice was steadier, more composed.

“So a lot happened after you left. Now, before you try to send another hoard of Hogwarts mail to the post office: I’m fine. Really. I am John Watson, when I was eleven I ate both my piece and both yours of deep fried butter on a stick at that fair in America, and then went on the rollercoaster and puked all over everyone, and then I ate even more deep fried butter and threw up in the hotel elevator. I still can’t eat buttered toast to this day. Now you know I’m not an artificial manipulated voice, and, Sherlock, now you know why I think butter is disgusting.”

His father chuckled. “I remember that. Blew ten pounds on those heart attacks on a stick.”

His mother made a disgusted noise, but she was smiling.

John continued. “Right. Well, the reason why I’m, uh, howling this, is because apparently Howlers are least likely to be checked by some spy or something like that, which sounds impossible but you never know with Sherlock. So.” A deep breath.

“Sherlock lost his magic.”

There was a gasp, but it wasn’t clear who it came from—the mother, or the father.

“I’ll explain more later, because even though I’m pretty Jackson could probably beat any other owl—anyowl?—up in a fight, Sherlock insists that owl mail is unreliable, despite his brilliant owl. Apparently the only way I’m allowed to tell you what happened is to, despite using a Howler, to send you, letter by letter, a—pay attention here—a “vigenere-atbash-cross-cipher” with the “key word” as my middle name. No, I do not understand half of those words.”

Sherlock interrupted. “John also has an excellent humour defense mechanism which, I must admit, is quite good at relieving tension.”

“Shut up, Sherlock, I told you you were done speaking. Anyways, it’s good though, because Sherlock is so brilliant that he already knows what he’s going to do without his magic after this year but he won’t tell me—”

“And an excellent passive-aggressiveness, too.”

“Oh, for god’s sake. What I’m trying to say is—don’t worry about us, we’re okay. Just wanted to tell you what happened. I guess my sixteenth birthday was more complicated than it was supposed to be, eh? I’m coming home in, like, a fortnight, and I’ll explain everything.” John sighed. “I promise everything will make sense again. I love you two, and I’ll see you soon.”

“By the way,” Sherlock added, sounding a bit apologetic (although it wouldn’t be a surprise if he was smirking), “it’s not particularly dangerous and it won’t spread, but I hope you have some water around.”

There was one full second of silence, and then there was a quiet _“pop!”_ and the letter burst into flames.

John’s father stared at the flaming letter in the middle of their bedroom. “Oh, what the _fuck.”_

Jackson hooted loudly, and flew over to John’s mother, carrying between his talons, thank the lords, a water bottle.

“Smart owl,” she said weakly, petting his ears.

Her mind was hopelessly overwhelmed, and, muscle memory taking over, she opened the bottle of water and took a gulp.

John’s father laughed, slightly hysterical.

“Darling, while I will always support the importance of your hydration, there is a floating letter on fire in the middle of the room.”

John’s mother replied, much more hysterically than John’s father, “You do it, I can’t, I’m so sorry.” She passed the bottle to him and then simply stared at the ball of fire.

John’s father looked at the bottle of water, then at the letter, helplessly.

“Uh…” he swung his arm back, and brought it up and around as if swinging a golf club.

The water flew out of the bottle and hit the envelope with a sizzle. The blackened papers, along with the rest of the water, fell into the bed, and distingerated.

John’s father stared at the growing wet spot in the middle of the bed and began laughing uncontrollably. John’s mother blinked, and groaned, a hand coming up to massage her forehead. She reached for her phone. 8:30. Oh, dear.

“That was _quite_ the letter,” the father said through guffaws.

-+-+-+-

Sherlock pushed John onto a chair that wasn’t previously there. He took a seat on another one across from him.

“A lesson on wands,” he declared.

John blinked, then shrugged, having learned a long time ago that this was Just Sherlock Things, and he really shouldn’t question them anymore. “Sure, Sherlock.” He shrugged, thinking about how strange that repeating syllable sounded, and putting a reminder aside to think of a pun for that later on.

Ten minutes later, John had an expanded knowledge of wand woods, length, flexibility, and cores, all of which he would probably forget in ten more minutes.

“That will be all,” Sherlock said, satisfied, as he waved his hand and sent away a table full of various wands (“I’ll give them back in ten minutes.”)

John blew out a breath and tucked a strand of hair behind his ears. “Right. So why did you tell me all this?

“Because it’s going to be on your O.W.L.s.”

“And how exactly do you know that?” John asked, a tad defensively, as he felt the just-learnt knowledge seeping out of his mind already.

“Because while Anderson was oh-so-cleverly explaining what had happened, pretending he figured it out instead of Mycroft telling him, and getting all of it completely wrong, I took the time to glance at his papers, which he really shouldn’t’ve kept on his desk.”

John sighed. “I should’ve known.”

“Also because it is a transition to this,” Sherlock added, and spun his wrist around once, making a spell book appear in his hands. “You, John, have broken your wand into two. I’ve sent it to Ollivanders’ for repair, and it will take a fortnight to do so, which is evidently not very good timing. And, as you know now because of the lesson I have just given, my wand is rather suitable for you. Ergo, you will need to use it for your O.W.L.s.”

 _“What?”_ John gaped. “I can’t do that!”

Sherlock shrugged, and smirked. “Or you could forgo practising anything requiring a wand until the O.W.L.s have already begun. Your choice.”

“We both know that’s a lie.” John sighed. He took Sherlock’s wand out from his robe. “Let’s go.”

Sherlock grinned, ruffled John’s hair, and placed the spell book onto the floor.

However, John realised, as he attempted to cast his first levitation charm, and, like most things he found, it was easier said than done.

“It’s too long,” he immediately blurted out the second after he waved the wand (to a really rather predictable nothing). “And… hard?” he added, extremely slowly, and blushed. “My God. Sometimes I wonder how teenage wizards restrain themselves.”

“Oh, believe me, they don’t.” Sherlock smirked and John felt his face heat up even more.

Sherlock took a step closer and moved John’s fingers a bit, adjusting his grip. John allowed this, frowning at the wand and wondering how in the world he was going to go about doing this.

“One more time,” Sherlock said with a nod, stepping back and replacing the spell book onto the floor.

“I mean, alright,” John muttered, and tried again.

_“Wingardium Leviosa!”_

The pages curled and unfurled every-so-slightly before dropping down once again.

“You just have to adapt to using a longer and stiffer wand,” Sherlock concluded. “It’ll work. Like I said earlier, you have proved your worth to the elder wood. You just need to be more insistent.”

His gaze focused and intensified, and John squirmed a bit and flushed again _(just_ when he had finally regained his composure), he couldn’t help it, he always did when Sherlock turned those eyes on him. It was like he was reading his mind.

“John Watson,” Sherlock declared with a slight smile, “you will not let me down. Not with my wand and my magic, too.”

No. Sherlock was right. He wouldn’t—he couldn’t.

John worked. He practised relentlessly every day, memorizing charms and potion ingredients, mentally screaming at the wand to _obey_ —and it worked. In a couple of days, he held Sherlock’s wand with ease, and the charm book floated into the air.

“Excellent,” Sherlock said, and John felt his heart flutter with the uncommon praise.

“Now cast a patronus,” immediately followed, and John felt it clatter to the floor.

“Are you sure?” he fiddled with the wand nervously. “It’s just a bonus.”

“You need the bonus,” Sherlock said matter-of-factly. John huffed, adjusted his grip on the wand multiple times, and tried to siphon out his thoughts of happiness.

 _I’m happy,_ he told himself. _Everything’s happy._

He thought of apple pie, his parents, his first night of magic. He thought of the violin piece (an entire bloody sonata), the muggle club, a dragon and a hippogriff curled up together. John thought of Sherlock.

But then the timeline shifted, and the memories turned black.

He thought of the note on his pillow. He thought of Treasure Island, Eurus Holmes, and _Imperio._ John thought of _Furantae._

The memories spun themselves around on another, a web of giddiness and misery, love and grief. The tip of his wand trembled, and then dropped to point at the floor.

“I can’t,” he said, lowering his head. “The memories are… tainted.”

John looked at his shoes and listened to the palpable silence. He heard footsteps coming closer, and felt hands come to a rest on his shoulders.

Sherlock kneeled down until John was forced to meet his eyes.

“You’re not happy,” Sherlock said carefully.

John’s voice wobbled and he drew his gaze to the side. “How can I be happy when I’m using stolen magic?”

There was a pause, and Sherlock sighed.

“John,” he said firmly. “John, look at me.”

Ever so slowly, John lifted his eyes until they were meeting Sherlock’s.

“I thought it was the best decision,” Sherlock said quietly. “You could keep your magic, and I could explore the muggle world. I thought it worked. You seemed happy today, yesterday, the days before that. But—” he sucked in a breath—“You’re not.”

“No, that’s not true,” John protested. He chewed on his inner cheek. “It’s not that I’m not happy. It’s just… those short moments when I forget about what I did, they only last seconds before I’m reminded again. And then it’s like, I don’t deserve happiness, how dare I, how can I even be happy, when—when I did that?”

As John was saying this, Sherlock appeared to be ready for a fierce rebuttal. But as John said those last phrases, he suddenly swallowed and looked up to the ceiling, blinking rapidly.

John’s face froze as he realised the full extent of his words.

“Oh, Sherlock,” he said, and pulled him into a hug.

Almost immediately, Sherlock’s arms came around John.

“I want you to be happy,” Sherlock said, haltingly. He clung on tight and frantic. “But I don’t know how.”

John pressed his cheek against Sherlock’s curly hair, and allowed himself another minute of indulgence before he backed away. His jaw was set with determination as he drew out his wand once more.

This time, he didn’t think of puns or spontaneous moments of laughter or even the word _happy._

He cast his eyes to Sherlock Holmes.

Almost immediately, thoughts bombarded him, good and bad, comforting and painful. Thoughts with betrayal and hurt. But this time, he didn’t block them out.

_(I want you to be happy.)_

“Expecto Patronum.”

There was a brilliant blue light, and the patronus bounded out from the wand.

John felt an excruciating wave of overwhelming sadness.

Very ironic.

It was probably the size of Andromeda. It looked up at John with a bit of confusion, and then tilted its head at Sherlock—whose face was fighting to maintain its mask—and then flopped down onto the floor.

“You—” Sherlock cleared his throat, but even still when he spoke his voice sounded strange. “You are technically using a portion of my magic, and my wand as well, so it’s reasonable for your patronus to become my dragon.”

“Yeah. Right.” John pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, and then gently tapped the small blue dragon with the tip of his wand. It flapped its wings once more, huffed out one last puff of smoke, and shimmered away. “I guess it’s our patronus now.”

John struggled to keep his breathing slow and steady. His eyes were burning.

Sherlock watched this for a second, then he came closer and silently brought his arms down around John.

John couldn’t think properly, but his arms automatically hugged him back, drawing himself in so that he was flush against Sherlock.

“This is the first one you’ve given me,” he said, not knowing what else to say.

“After twelve of yours, I decided to start, too.”

“You counted them?”

“Of course.”

“And this is your first.”

“It won’t be the last.”

It was a strange hug, too lanky to be comfortable; one of Sherlock’s arms was below one of John’s and made it rather awkward—but the comfort John felt then, it engulfed him, and it brought his tears to overflow.

John buried his head into Sherlock’s chest. “I’m so sorry.”

“There is no reason for you to be sorry.”

“Everything’s shit.”

“It’s okay.” Sherlock lightly stroked the back of John’s head.

“It’s not okay.”

Sherlock let his head drop. “No.” He pressed his cheek into John’s hair. “But it is what it is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longish chapter today, in honour of Canada Day I suppose. Happy 150 years! And, coincidentally, I have reached 150 kudos! <3


	31. Staying Alive

It’s strange, how quickly they fall back into a routine.

There are moments when John wakes up in a cold, cold sweat, fire fading away from his vision, a lingering phantom touch of two knobby thin arms, dashing him away while columns of flames swarmed around. Flashes of gold-black-red, that soothing voice in his head, his traitorous arm lifting, pointing. Thoughts of _you did this, you monster, how could you._

In these mornings John lies in bed, shivering and reminding himself to breath, until the tears dry on his face and the memories are muted and dulled. Mike Stamford knows too well to avoid him then.

Sometimes Sherlock will move his hand into the inner pocket of his robe, caught up in a flurry of thought, too much in his head to remember that his wand does not belong to him anymore. His hand never makes it to the pocket.

John is the only person to ever notice the slight tremor in Sherlock’s hand as he draws it away, to gesticulate, to point, to do whatever else. John is the only one to see the flicker in Sherlock’s eyes, pain and anger and grief swirled into one single millisecond before it is destroyed.

John reaches for Sherlock when this happens, quietly takes the trembling hand, and squeezes his silent apology.

Yes, there are moments.

But now, when John wakes in a cold, cold sweat, he sits up immediately. He wipes the tears off his face and talks to Mike.

Now, when Sherlock finds his hand irresistibly drawn to his inner robe pocket, there is an immediate smooth transition to the outer robe pocket, and he retrieves a notebook where he scribbles notes in the margins and impossibly perfect diagrams—with a pen. His pale eyes are firm and unwavering, as steady as his hands.

Life moves on.

Granted, it takes almost a week for the gossip to die down. No one is brave enough to approach Sherlock to either tease or talk to him—perhaps because John stares down everyone who gives Sherlock those curious looks, whispers to wizards beside them with a hand over their mouth. A warning look that serves no use in diminishing the rumours, perhaps even further complicates them. Sherlock, on his part, doesn’t seem to notice any of this—and, when John confronts him about it, simply shrugs and says, “it’s barely any different from the usual.” The only thing that Sherlock seems to be bothered by, is the lack of, as he says, _“anything remotely interesting”._ (Which, in John’s opinion, is utter rubbish, but Sherlock’s standards of “interesting” are remarkably high.)

After John’s birthday, the previously constant stream of people approaching Sherlock for little cases and mysteries had all but stopped. Sherlock Holmes was positively _brimming_ with boredom, and his ennui never meant good news to anyone. From his bizarre experiments to increasingly inappropriate deductions, John was on the brink of madness.

But life moves on, and the first case they get since Sherlock loses his magic begins when he and John are walking to Charms on a sunny Thursday afternoon. John is rambling on about the importance of sleep and a proper breakfast, and Sherlock is blatantly ignoring him, and John rolls his eyes and turns to Sherlock and sees that, strangely, Sherlock does not have that faraway, but still focused (just not on the matter at hand, John supposed) look that he usually does when he is not listening.

Sherlock’s eyes held an intense sense of concentration—but it seemed more _present_. It was really quite difficult to explain, and sometimes John didn’t even know if his analysis were correct.

“Sherlock?” John lightly elbowed him. “What is it?”

Suddenly, Sherlock slowed to a stop, and whirled around so he faced the direction they had headed from.

John does the same, but (probably unlike Sherlock) he not expect what he sees.

A girl of around thirteen stood a distance away. She gasps when they see her but her feet remained where they were.

In a few quick strides Sherlock closed the distance between them to less than a metre. He ran his eyes over her, but it didn’t seem intimate in the slightest—rather, a cold and calculating sort of scrutiny. They pause at her collar, her hair, her shoes, the end of her robe.

“Alyssa Treman. You’ve been stealing potion ingredients from the classroom. Do not bother attempting Amortentia. You are not nearly at that skill level. Go to Hogsmeade and buy a love potion, or better yet, just talk to whomever you are attracted to—it works exponentially better.”

Sherlock’s look returned to the girl’s eyes, and he smiled. “You’ve lost your wand. Well, well, not to worry, we’ll find it. Come now.” He swept his robe with an arm in a fashion that was really quite theatrical, coming from someone who constantly insisted there would be no need for theatrics—and then strode away.

The girl, Alyssa apparently, appeared to have trouble picking her jaw off the floor.

“You get used to it after a while,” John said. He changed his mind. “No, actually, you don’t.” He gave her a cheery smile. “I guess you accept it.”

Alyssa was still staring.

John sighed, and patted her on the back. “C’mon,” he said, “let’s go.”

The girl begun to follow John as they moved towards Sherlock. Her eyes were still wide with wonder.

“It’s true,” she managed to whisper.

“Yeah, he can do that,” John said with amusement. “Do you have potion ingredient stains on your sleeves?”

Alyssa raised her arms. The sleeves were spotless.

“They’re too clean,” Sherlock called out from in front of them. “You charmed the stains away on your arms, but you failed to see the pearl dust on the back of your robe, the powdered moonstone in your hair, and the rose thorn stuck on the side of your shoe—signature ingredients for a love potion. You keep massaging your arm—Amortentia calls for rapid nonstop stirring for fifteen minutes. There is an indent of a cauldron on your sleeve—a very deep indent. You carry the unmistakable scent of the Potions classroom, yet you do not have that class until seventh period.

“You don’t want me to know about this; it’s not the reason you’re here. On the other hand, you don’t seem to have your wand with you.” He turned around and smiled in a way that made John shiver. “Now. Where did you last see it?”

John stared at Sherlock, the rising awe no less than the very first time he had seen one of Sherlock’s deductions.

_Just talk to whomever you are attracted to—it works exponentially better._

But no. John was always too hopeful. Sherlock had made it clear he didn’t want anything akin to that in his life—from nothing and no one. Everything Sherlock did was merely a sign of his trust towards John. Was it worth it to break that compromise in hopes for something more? Wasn’t it enough, what they had now?

So John ignored the nagging in his mind, pushed it to the corner, and drew his thoughts back to the current case.

Alyssa made several attempts to speak before succeeding. “I forgot it in the kitchen. I realised when I heard voices there, and ran out to find my wand gone. They ran away with it. The voices were—”

“Bullies, yes, yes,” Sherlock said impatiently, “you get bullied, I can tell.”

John frowned a bit, and Sherlock seemed to notice, for then he added, “I’ll stop them if you give me a sample of your hair.”

John made a face. “What?”

Alyssa did the same. “I’m fine, thanks,” she said slowly.

Sherlock shrugged. “OK,” he said curtly, and turned to a statue by the corner. He shifted a patch on its shoulder and the wall beside it moved.

John dashed Alyssa a grin, then followed Sherlock into the narrow passageway that had been revealed.

“What? I—” Alyssa shut her mouth. “I’m just going to accept this,” she muttered, and did the same.

They walked in silence. John felt a tingling in his scalp and moved a hand through his hair to find a couple of small black spiders. He shuddered, shook his head violently, and then reached behind him to brush off Alyssa’s black hair before doing the same with Sherlock.

“Thank you, John,” said Sherlock, and John nearly yanked off a wad of Sherlock’s curls.

“You’re welcome,” he replied carefully, and studied the back of Sherlock’s head for a long time.

When Sherlock refused to acknowledge this, John sighed, and turned to the girl behind him.

“Hello,” John said cautiously. “I’m John.”

Alyssa nodded with a faint smile. “Everyone knows that.”

John frowned a bit, glancing at Sherlock in front of him.

“So,” John continued, drawing out the word. “You’ve lost your wand?”

“John, please,” Sherlock said from in front of him, “small talk isn’t necessary.”

John blew out a breath. “Right.”

They settled back into silence, John sulking a bit, Alyssa watching the two of them with interest, and Sherlock ploughing forward.

Tickling the pear and entering the kitchen was done without much difficulty, and once they were there John looked around at the busy area, the dishes and cutlery neatly stacked and floating through the air, and, out of all the house elves rushing about, carrying steaming turkeys and puddings and pies, John didn’t recognise any one of them.

He felt a light touch on his hand.

“Fired,” Sherlock murmured under his breath. “You’ll never see him again.”

John smiled. “Thank you, Sherlock.” For more than just that. And despite how thick Sherlock could be, from the tentative lift of his lips and the fleeting look of softness on his face, he was sure he knew it as well.

The moment was over in a second, and Sherlock turned back to the kitchens. “Where exactly did you place the wand?”

Alyssa pointed towards a spot on the counter.

“Can’t she just _accio_ it?” John blurted out.

“In order for an _accio_ you must first know the location of the object,” Sherlock immediately replied.

“Shame.” John frowned.

Sherlock hummed, then looked around the kitchen. His eyes stopped mid-scan, and John followed his gaze to the flour dusted floor. He squinted at the smudged markings, not really knowing what Sherlock saw from them but from the way Sherlock’s eyes cleared in that _aha!_ look, wishing he could.

Sherlock immediately turned on a house elf who was taking a giant pan of cookies out of the oven.

“You were making the cookie dough; you must’ve been here since this morning,” he dashed out. “Who came to this counter after this girl?”

The house elf’s eyes were even wider than usual as he stammered, “I have promised not to talk.”

“Oh, don’t bother, I know whomever took Alyssa’s wand is not your master, and telling me who they are and where they went will not make you slam your ears in the oven door.”

The house elf huffed and crossed his arms. “House elves do not break promises,” he stated firmly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Astronomy Tower, Great Hall, Forbidden Forest, Great Lake,” he recited, and suddenly stopped at the last one.

“You did not talk,” Sherlock said curtly. “Therefore you have not broken your promise and shattered your meretricious pride. Oh, and, one more thing.” He reached forwards and grabbed a cookie from the tray. “You added too much baking soda.”

He placed the cookie in John’s hand, looked straight into John’s eyes with the barest hint of a smile, and left the kitchen.

There was a rest. No, more like a _fermata._ John and Alyssa and the house elf looked at one another, wide eyed.

John felt inappropriate giggles rising up in his chest, and they bubbled out.

Alyssa laughed nervously. The house elf made an indignant noise.

John split the cookie in thirds the best he could, handing a piece to each of them. Oatmeal raisin, he noticed, and his chest warmed.

The house elf took the cookie. He looked at it, then to John, blinked rapidly, and then shook his head. “I’m going to forget all this ever happened,” he said, stuffed the cookie into his mouth, and began to remove the rest of them from the tray and onto a large serving dish.

“Just one more thing,” said John. “Was it the Great Lake?”

The house elf stopped chewing. He scowled, and John laughed with delight.

He took a bite out of the cookie, and chewed thoughtfully.

“Too much baking soda?” he finally decided. “I honestly can’t tell. Well.” he sighed, “come on, Alyssa, let’s go get your wand.”

Sherlock was in the Great Hall, counting bricks on a wall. (Honestly, did he ever go place-to-place normally, and without any fancy secret passages?)

John sidled up to him. “I never knew baking was more important than the solar system.”

Sherlock scoffed, and pushed a brick. “Basic chemistry is more important than the solar system.”

John smiled faintly. “Fair enough. So,” he changed the topic, “how’d you know they went to the Great Lake?”

“It’s like lying—something always gives it away. In this case his ears twitched.”

“Amazing,” John enthused, and Sherlock looked away with a small, almost shy smile.

-+-+-+-

John kicked at some wet grass as he watched Sherlock bend over and examine the mud. What he was getting from looking at a sloppy puddle of dirt, John had no clue.

Alyssa was crouched beside Sherlock, looking on with interest. Sherlock gave her a glance, then said something quietly to her that made her blush furiously, stammer, and walk away to wander around a path near the lake.

John laughed, decided he really didn’t want to know, and began to walk around the edge of the water, around the circumference of the lake.

So many things were going on at once that John found himself, actually, feeling much, much less overwhelmed than he should be. The Muggle Club, O.W.L.s, actual owls for letters to his parents, Quidditch—

And, the one that he was trying to avoid the most, and also the one his mind kept drifting to—Sherlock.

Sherlock had consistently insisted that he was _fine,_ and that he knew what to do after the school year ended. And while John highly doubted Sherlock’s plan on what to do was in any way practical, Sherlock was also so bloody stubborn John knew he wouldn’t be able to sway him.

But that wasn’t the point he was avoiding, was it?

“John!” Speak of the devil.

Sherlock’s voice was far away but urgent, but when did Sherlock _not_ sound urgent? John rubbed his eyes and sighed. He couldn’t go back, not yet.

“There must be something wrong with you,” Mike told him once, “if you’re so bloody attracted to Sherlock Holmes.”

(John had just put off one of their “Friday muggle-born and wizard question exchanges” to hold a milk bottle to a pygmy puff whilst Sherlock played the violin. John really ought to question the things Sherlock required him to do, but when you’re cuddling a ball of fluff while Tchaikovsky played in the background it was really much too surreal to ask questions).

And while Mike had only meant it in the sense that John could not help himself from going to Sherlock’s side, John had a slowly confirming suspicion that his words were correct in more than just that one way.

And he must be right, too, because out of all the people he could’ve ended up hopelessly attracted to (in all ways possible), it just had to be a mildly-sociopathic underage detective who constantly puts himself and anyone involved with him in mortal danger.

His runners squished through the riverbank. John felt his socks dampen and shuddered, moving away from the water to wipe them on the dry grass. He sighed and peered over to where he had left the mildly-sociopathic underage detective, all the way on the other side of the lake.

 _Act normal,_ he told himself, and headed back towards Sherlock.

There must be _something_ between the two of them, right? Judging from the reactions John sees from other students when Sherlock does anything that’s not even _affectionate,_ just _not completely frigid,_ just a light touch of his hand on his shoulder or a small flick of his hair or even a smile—he must be exceptional, at least.

Trying once again, and once again finding himself unable to, smother the hope in his heart, John spent the rest of the walk back desperately trying to block out any thoughts related to Sherlock. (He failed horrifically, of course.)

When he reached where Sherlock had been crouched down, John walked over to the footprints that he had left and frowned.

Maybe Sherlock had gone off somewhere without bothering to tell him. And after calling for him, too. Well. Maybe that could help John fall less in love with him.

“Sherlock?” John looked at the footprints that led to the side of the lake, and then deeper ones where he was crouching, examining something or the other that John had no clue of.

A small rock jutted out sharply from the mud.

An unsettling feeling settled over him. (Ironic.)

Waves of circles rippled out from the surface of the lake.

John scanned the dark waters, and floating up in his mind was the voice he had heard how long ago, he didn’t know. Sherlock’s call for him suddenly sounded much more urgent. Feeling panic replace the unsettlement, John kicked off his shoes and peeled off his socks.

“Alyssa!” he called out, but the little girl was nowhere to be seen. He swore quietly, sucked in a breath, and jumped.

The water was warm, which would be pleasant if not for the fact that his best friend, maybe more than that, was possibly drowning in it.

He sent a million ‘thank you’s to his camp counselor, who had forced him to open his eyes underwater. Ignoring the slight sting, John swivelled his head, but seeing nothing so near to the surface, where sunlight sparkled and waves refracted the shimmering sun rays.

Looking down and seeing the abyss of the lake, deeper, the light being swallowed up by darkness, John shivered despite the lukewarm temperatures.

He shut his eyes briefly, then swam up and cast a bubble-head charm before going back in. This time, he kicked his legs out hard and went down, down, down, feeling his ears pop as the water became colder and colder.

Sherlock had called out for him. And John hadn’t responded, too busy moaning about his life to even look back.

John stretched his eyes wide, blinking hard, but all he could see was black.

Wait—no.

A faint pinprick of light appeared in the distance.

A woman—no—a _creature_ —no—a mermaid?

 _Merpeople,_ John finally recalled.

Her eyes were big and yellow. Her teal hair floated out in tendrils. She was carrying a glowing patch of seaweed.

She smiled at John, and let out a sort of drawn-out, breathy singing.

 _“Sherlock,”_ John tried to say, but all that came out was a muted, dulled gurgle.

The merwoman seemed to understand, and made another noise, a murmured sigh through pursed lips. With a swish of her tail she turned and swam away.

John followed without a trace of hesitation.

They went deeper, impossibly deeper, into the lake (hell, it would be more apt to call it an _ocean_ at this point). John stuffed his fingers into his ears and winced at the throbbing that would only get worse.

His feet touched a surface. Smooth, cold sand. A small part of John noted that this was impossible, that he must be floating up to the surface of the lake, but he had too much on his mind to register this.

Something was ahead of them. A dark patch John couldn’t quite make out.

The merwoman stopped and passed the seaweed to John. She smiled again, but it was tinged with pity, and then she flicked her tail and swam away.

John gulped and stared at his companion as she slowly disappeared. He took a deep breath, and suddenly realised with a pang that Sherlock did not have this luxury and had possibly been in the water for much longer. He jolted, and quickly walked towards the darkness. He held up the seaweed, casting a faint glow onto the dark patch.

He dropped it.

His heart simultaneously crashed to his stomach and erupted out of his chest.

A body was bound to a large rock. Tentacle-like vines twisted around his arms, legs, and torso. His head was down, but at the sound of John approaching it raised, his eyes open, his face urgent. His lips moved— _John_ —letting out a precious burst of air bubbles.

An inexplicable sound escaped him as John fell forwards to cover Sherlock’s mouth.

 _Save_ — _your_ — _breath,_ he mouthed violently.

Sherlock nodded and tightened his lips. His eyes shut briefly as his body spasmed, once, and the appendages around him tightened.

 _Devil’s Snare,_ John thought, and tried to push down his tears as he watched Sherlock body plead for oxygen.

His hand flew up to the bubble of air around his mouth and nose.

Sherlock shook his head, then his fists curled and his adam’s apple bobbed desperately. He shuddered and convulsed.

John scrabbled for his wand. _“Hyacinthum Ignis,”_ he tried to say. Tried.

Sherlock shook his head. John made a gasping noise. _I’m sorry, I’m sorry,_ he mouthed in a frenzy.

Sherlock’s eyes, once fluttering, focused to John once more, and, for God’s sake, Sherlock was _glaring,_ eyes furious with the look that said, _get the hell on with it._ John didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry, so he did a combination of both.

Sherlock gritted his teeth. Then, his entire body _jerked_ —his mouth fell open, gulping down the cold, cold water, his eyes found John’s one last time before shutting.

 _“Sherlock!”_ John didn’t care if his words couldn’t be heard; he howled it like a curse.

He tilted his head up. The light was a million miles away. He didn’t have enough time.

John’s vision went fuzzy. He jabbed his wand at Sherlock, and the two words that formed his spell sliced through the panic in his head.

He _thought_ the spell, thought it so hard it was all his mind could think of, he _demanded_ it, goddammit, and all of a sudden his wand lit up the water; a jet of blue blossomed over the restraints.

Immediately, the Devil’s Snare shrank away from the body. It writhed on the sand, then slithered away.

John made incoherent noises as he gathered Sherlock up in shaking arms. He looked up at the darkness surrounding him, and his jaw set.

He thought of the muddled footprints on the side of the lake, the protruding rock, his soaked sneakers. He held his wand above his head, and turned on the spot.

There was a twisting in his stomach, too much, and when he appeared on the surface on the side of the lake with Sherlock in his arms, John immediately went crashing to the ground.

John rolled Sherlock so that he was on his side _(semi-prone position_ he foggily remembered), and then promptly turned to the lake and vomited.

“Oh, God,” John mumbled, pressing a hand to his forehead.

He turned away from the lake, putting the slightest pressure on his left leg.

Making a cross between a choke and a scream, John collapsed onto the ground. He blinked away tears that had sprung up, and looked at his leg.

He appeared to be missing his left kneecap.

He didn’t have time for this. John swatted away the alarm blaring in his mind, gritted his teeth, and half-pivoted-half-dragged himself so he was facing Sherlock.

Sherlock’s hair, usually unruly, was plastered to his face. His eyelids were still. His chest was unmoving.

John took one look at the Elder wood wand and tossed it aside. If there was a spell for such occasions, John didn’t know it.

_Step One: check if unconscious._

Was that step one? Screw it. John didn’t know, couldn’t remember from the foggy fragments of his memory, screaming children and sharp whistles, a static-ridden _Staying Alive_ playing on the radio as they pumped the hearts of plastic dummies.

He hollered at Sherlock, he pinched his ears, he slapped him clean across the face. Nothing.

“Airway, Breathing, Circulation,” John muttered, leaning over Sherlock, dripping water all over him, tilting back his head, and listening, watching. Nothing.

He was shocked his heart didn’t pop straight out of his mouth.

“Please,” he pleaded, and grabbed a pale, cold, clammy wrist.

He moaned with relief when it fluttered, albeit weakly, underneath his fingers.

“Okay, okay,” he said. His breathing came in gasps.

Sherlock had came out of the water. So…

“Okay,” John said again, took the deepest breath he could manage, and bent over Sherlock to meet his lips.

 _One…_ John forgot how to do this, for Christ’s sake, he tried to exhale slowly and steadily, and for once he had no thought other than _breathe for fuck’s sake breathe_.

He broke away and took in another inhale through his hyperventilation.

 _Two…_ John gave _thought_ into his breaths, he didn’t care if it was stupid, he thought as he exhaled _you will live goddammit_ and then he felt a spasm beneath him and water spilled out of Sherlock’s lips.

Sherlock coughed violently, shuddering and curling up on himself. He pushed himself up with an arm and looked at John with disorientated eyes, but they were already sharpening, processing, the gears whirring in his (fantastic, amazing, brilliant) mind.

John sobbed with relief, grabbed Sherlock’s face, and kissed him.

And Sherlock _recoiled,_ sharply jerking away, and John’s heart twisted itself into shreds.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry Sherlock I’m sorry _I’m sorry._ ” John stood up and crashed to the ground by a searing pain in his left leg. He told it to sod off and got back up.

Sherlock’s eyes travelled to John’s leg. He blinked. His face revealed nothing as he looked back at John and raised a hand to touch his lips.

 _“Oh, Christ.”_ John wanted to _crucio_ himself.

Sherlock was silent. His face was flushed, lips parted—

 _Shut up!_ John screamed at himself, _look what you’ve done!_

“I’m sorry,” John said, and he couldn’t keep his voice from breaking.

Sherlock didn’t say anything.

John took a step back. His leg screamed with agony but he didn’t care—he turned, and ran away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, boy. I was going to split this chapter but 1. I'm too lazy, and 2. We're on chapter thirty already?!  
> 


	32. A Silent Soliloquy of Sappy Sentiment

When Sherlock had touched the secret entrance on the night of John’s birthday, when he felt the tugging in his stomach that could only mean one thing—in that brief second, he was _panicked._ Yes, Sherlock decided: although his instincts had kicked in, he had been disorientated for a short time frame before his mind and logic followed through.

When, nearly five years ago, Sherlock stared at his little sister, writhing on the floor in agony: yes, his thought process came to a halt, and he had fled, and it had been quite a long time before he could begin reasoning of any sort.

But _this._

 _This_ was an entirely different subject altogether.

Sherlock was completely stunned. He blinked at the figure limping into the castle, and found himself unable to deduce, unable to gather information, unable to think anything but _he kissed me, he kissed me._

He should be working out the facts, finding out the reason—not sitting here like an idiot, tracing a finger over his lips. But here he was.

He should hate this, he should be forcing the words _John Watson_ and anything that correlated to those words out of his mind, shoving them into a dark corner of verboten desires. _But here he was._

It was, frankly, a bit perturbing, a bit alarming. He had built this wall of ice, an isolating barrier, and John had the audacity to just waltz in and effortlessly shatter it into tiny shards.

No, he thought. Not shattered. _Melted._

Sherlock’s eye twitched a bit and he shook his head, a small effort to draw him out of this dazed condition. He pressed his fingers to his temples and shut his eyes. Not even one second after, he opened them, cast them to the sky, and swore quietly. His mind palace, it seemed, was currently under construction.

_“Sherlock!”_

Sherlock slowly raised his head, and felt both irritated and glad to see Anderson and Alyssa heading his way. Irritated because he wouldn’t be able to think about what had just happened, as such a thing required his full concentration (such things were very rare, and of course John managed to create one), and glad because of the same reason.

The girl was sprinting towards him, and began talking before she even reached the edge of the lake.

“Oh, Sherlock, I’m so sorry,” Alyssa babbled, looking at Sherlock’s soaked robes and dripping hair, “I was walking around the lake, and I heard John call for me but he was so far away, and when I got there he was gone, and I didn’t know until I saw the shoes, I didn’t—I ran for the Headmaster, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Sherlock didn’t even pretend what she said had anything of importance to him. “You didn’t actually lose your wand,” he said in a quiet monotone, feeling a dulled copy of his usual satisfaction at Alyssa’s gasp and shudder. “You got bullied into doing so. They wanted to make you approach me; in fact, they followed us with an atrocious attempt at an Invisibility Charm. A Ravenclaw and a Slytherin, both female, second year, blond, and around five foot four. They’ve left by now, but I’m sure they’ll come to you soon.” His mind slowly spun along, easily falling into its familiar routine, gladly tossing aside its previous thoughts for this less risky and more secure pathway. “They made you stay inside the common room with blackmail or threats, either is possible, as they took your wand and ran into the kitchen, where they made the house elf promise not to tell they were going to the lake: they didn’t elude him entirely because they wanted to see how I was going to force it out of him.” Sherlock gave Alyssa a baleful look and reached inside his inner robe pocket to draw out a wand. He held it out to Alyssa, who took it with shaking fingers. “If it weren’t for the utter monotony of these days, I would not have taken this case, which would’ve been a four at the most, even with the added layer of this being staged. I expect a lock of your hair, at least half an inch wide, cut one inch from the scalp, preferably from the middle of the back of your head. You may give it to me during lunch.” Sherlock sighed, and then turned to the Headmaster.

“Anderson, I do hope you tell your students to stop their staring and whispering—more than the usual—and to approach me for cases once more. I have resorted to a _four;_ can you believe that? I think I have sufficiently proved to you that, although my magic is gone, I have not lost an ounce of my brainpower.”

It took a moment for Anderson to remember how to speak. “You—” he coughed. “You fell into the lake—correct?”

Sherlock increased the balefulness in his gaze. “Excellent deduction, Headmaster. You really don’t need me at all.”

Anderson started to say something, then stopped, pinched the bridge of his nose, and exhaled noisily.

“Do you need some sinus-clearing potions? I have some in my dormitory. And could I keep the mucus for another _experiment_ , too?”

“I swear, Sherlock,” Anderson said through gritted teeth.

“You swear? Really? I didn’t _fucking know.”_

“Sherlock!” In a flash, Anderson had swooped down, and was grabbing Sherlock’s shoulders tightly.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and stared back without emotion.

Anderson tightened his lips, sighed, and loosened his grip on Sherlock’s shoulders. “Look, Sherlock,” he said steadily. “I’m trying to be reasonable here. I can’t force the students to approach you for cases. It takes time for gossip to settle down. Patience isn’t a word in your vocabulary, I know at least that. I thought, if you could tutor John on his O.W.L.s, it would be enough, but—” he saw the change in Sherlock’s expression, the barest flicker; slight as it was, it was colossal coming from Sherlock. “What? What’s wrong?”

Sherlock struggled to keep his voice steady. “I don’t think that’s any of your business,” he said coldly. “But I will inform you that John Watson is now capable of producing a patronus, casting non-verbal spells, and apparition—although that one needs some work.” He stood up, forcing his legs not to shake. After a moment, he bent down and grabbed the pair of shoes and socks next to him. “Have a nice day,” he said curtly, and left Anderson and Alyssa by the lake.

Heading to the back of the castle, Sherlock walked over to a tree that looked, with its top completely blown off, blackened, peeling bark, and hollow interior, as if it had been blasted by lightning. It had been, in a way—Sherlock had been testing one of his own versions of the Blasting Curse (blue lightning instead of orange fire, more concentrated and more calculating). He placed John’s shoes and socks in the hollow, then began to walk around the castle, pacing across the well-worn path (it sounded lonely without the quick energetic pitters and skips that had accompanied him since September, but he dashed that thought away).

He supposed he had to thank Anderson for their little chat—his mind had cleared up after that little bout of speech, giving him an ample opportunity to think about what had just happened. Although, with what he was going to think about, he doubted his mind would stay clear for long.

John Watson had kissed him.

And Sherlock bloody well _shivered_ as the phrase entered his mind.

John Watson. Kissed him. Sherlock Holmes.

 _Stop._ Sherlock shook his head, forcing himself to stop his _soft_ side, the comfort side he saw too much as his _John Watson_ side, forcing himself to go back to logical reasoning, fact, and sense.

Possible: John was attempting another breath for mouth-to-mouth resuscitation—

No. John had seen him return to consciousness, and had studied him for several seconds before leaning in. And unless he was truly atrocious at it, which wasn’t a possibility for he had saved Sherlock with it just before, it wasn’t mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. No, it was a kiss, Sherlock was sure of it: John had not opened his mouth, nor opened Sherlock’s, nor made an attempt to exhale. John had pressed his lips against Sherlock’s. Thus: a kiss.

But _why?_

Possible: it was a prank, bet, or dare. Perhaps Mike Stamford, or Irene Adler, that was more likely—

No. It was spur-of-the-moment, Sherlock was certain of that. John did it suddenly, almost in a hurry (almost desperately he thought, but didn’t dare go that far)—and looked utterly stunned afterwards. Thus: a kiss, and not a prank, bet, or dare.

Possible: John was being forced: the Imperious curse—

No, he knew the symptoms, the glazed eyes, the shakiness of the victim’s voice, and although John’s voice was shaking, it was certainly not from a curse.

He ran through eleven more possibilities, and found all of them ruled out.

In the end, he had the following:

John had kissed Sherlock, without being forced, manipulated, or talked into doing, in any way.

But it didn’t make sense.

He ran through the points, from the very beginning. Perhaps that would clear it up. (A part of him knew it wouldn’t, and that he was simply stalling, but he let himself do it; why he didn’t know, and bloody hell this was more confusing than a serial killer.)

He had known the case was not simply what the girl had said it to be (and it was confirmed when he caught multiple flashes of two people following them) when he saw the footprints left on the floor of the kitchen, accentuated by a dusting of flour and ground oats. Too close together for a run, neither the girl’s or the so-called bullies’. Too planned and careful. To think they didn’t think of that when trying to trick him!

And yet, he had been so _bored_ —you can only get so far with experiments limited to his dormitory, and he knew it would be the death of him if Mycroft saw him heading towards the Forest. And Alyssa _had_ lost her wand—just not in the way she said.

And when he realised they were heading to the Lake, and that Alyssa’s wand was indeed in the water, he had thought that maybe there would be something to gain from this, after all.

John didn’t need any bonuses. His dogged determination and Sherlock’s relentless pushing meant he would most certainly Exceed Expectations. However, Sherlock was never one to stop at “good enough”.

Non-verbal spells required an intense amount of focus and willpower, and Sherlock had seen multiple times that John Watson did exceedingly well under pressure.

A couple years ago there had been a case involving potions and poisons, in which the brewer, after being discovered by Sherlock, had poured the evidence into the Great Lake (why he did not simply charm it away was unbeknownst to Sherlock). Sherlock had gone to Irene to acquire the antidotes _(acquire_ being used as a euphemism here), and offered them to the creatures in the lake.

The merpeople colony owed him, and it came into use now.

Sherlock had called out John’s name, making sure to add a sense of panic, and then waited another minute before diving into the water, taking care to make it seem like an accident, that he had fallen in. He explained to a merwoman what he needed her to do the best he could in his rather mediocre Mermish, and while she had been bewildered at why he wanted to be tied up in their special Devil’s Snare (that would only ever slacken under bluebell flames) without any supply of oxygen whatsoever, she did what Sherlock asked of her.

John would gain enough determination with Sherlock bound up and in danger, and, being unable to speak clearly underwater, the only way to save him would be to cast a nonverbal spell. Alyssa’s wand was an easy task of inspecting the water currents, and it was found lodged in between a rock (Sherlock thought about leaving it there, but after all it was the bullies who had put it there. And he wanted to find out if curly hair like his was a better insulator than straight hair like Alyssa’s, and he thought some of her hair was a fair trade for her wand.)

Sherlock had overestimated his ability to hold his breath—before his body began to spasm, he had thought three minutes. But when John saw him, bound to that rock—there had been so much anguish written on his face, so much pain and sympathy and grief. Seeing that much emotion from someone, how affected John had gotten because of him, because of, possibly (and Sherlock tried to squash his hope here but it didn’t work), how much John—cared?—about _him_ —his pulse had sped up, and he found that he was unable to drop it back down.

The last thing he remembered was John, mouthing _I’m sorry, I’m sorry_. Sherlock knew he should’ve been at least momentarily panicked at that, but he wasn’t. He didn’t even feel frightened. Sherlock remembered looking back at John with steady eyes despite his fading vision, glaring at him, feeling, simply, annoyed and impatient: couldn’t John cast it any bloody faster?

Yes, the merwoman would’ve freed Sherlock if John had failed, but the thought of that hadn’t even crossed Sherlock’s mind. He had been completely certain John would be able to cast the spell. It had been complete and utter trust.

He hadn’t also expected the Apparition (although a part of him was glad John had decided to do so: it would certainly raise his marks. Other than the fact that John had splinched his left kneecap away—Sherlock would have to retrieve that from the bottom of the lake, wouldn’t he?). It wasn’t John’s fault to not know that it, quite literally, takes your breath away. It had drawn out the last precious dregs of oxygen in his system, and replaced it with water.

He had, of course, thought of all these complications beforehand. And, like an utter madman, he still decided to go through with it.

Just for John to learn a nonverbal spell, and possibly Apparition. Just for John to get a good score on his O.W.L.s. Just for John to be happy.

Just for John.

Sherlock sighed, half exasperated and half sardonic. _Look what I’ve done for you._

And he felt his lips twitch, his heart flutter. He snorted a bit. Look at him—smiling like an idiot with his fluttering heart.

It wasn’t very hard to spot that Sherlock Holmes was utterly besotted.

It hadn’t happened in an instant; he didn’t have a life-changing, sudden epiphany. No—it snuck up on him.

And now it was much too late.

It was already painfully obvious, from the very first day. On the Hogwarts Express on September, when John entered the compartment looking terribly confused, when Sherlock realised John had next to no knowledge of the wizarding world nor of Sherlock himself, when he drilled it into him that he wasn’t going to mess this one up, not this time. When he rattled off observations, when he bought goddamn snacks that he never even ate, when he played the goddamn violin for him within thirty minutes of meeting him _._

From that first day, Sherlock was a goner.

Things had progressed at an alarming rate, and by John’s birthday, Sherlock had been determined to make it perfect. He hadn’t known whether to feel frustrated or relieved or confused, when John seemed not to mind if his birthday was not perfect and flawless. Hell, he could’ve just given him a gallon of Hazelnut Gelato and John would’ve been fine with it.

The violin sonata was devised, composed, and practised, all in the span of two-and-a-half hours. It was not overly flashy, exceedingly flamboyant—and yet, it somehow seemed monumental. Sherlock had a realisation that night: he didn’t need to wrack his mind for deductions, constantly try to impress the other. Similarly, he didn’t particularly care what John did; John just had to _be there_ and Sherlock would be satisfied. They were, simply… together. And it was _nice._ He had thought it many times, but that night, that was the first time he _accepted_ it: that, maybe, this was better than being alone.

He had left the room flushed and, dare he say it, _happy_.

And then.

Back in the cave, with John sprawled on the floor, the choice: him or Sherlock’s magic? and the mere _thought_ of losing John Watson, that he wouldn’t see him, hear his adrenaline-spike giggles and terrible puns, ever again, just the faintest idea of not having any of that, not having _John,_ anymore, it scared him so much it physically _hurt._

 _Take it,_ his heart had screamed, overpowering his mind, and it was saying it now— _take my magic, take it all, take my arm, take my leg, take my everything, just don’t take my John._

Since when did he start referring to John with a possessive pronoun? That should be alarming, but Sherlock didn’t feel very alarmed, which made it all the more alarming.

When John had made Sherlock create the Howler with him, as Sherlock rattled off bit after bit of knowledge he had accumulated both about John and his parents, Sherlock had been both a bit surprised and a bit concerned. He didn’t even know how much he knew until he tried to know it. And he _hadn’t_ tried to know it: Sherlock hadn’t been consciously keeping tabs on John Watson. And yet, he knew his favourite colour, cookie, ice cream flavour; preferred breakfast, lunch, and dinner; and every other tidbit there was. None of that information was in the John Watson file in his mind palace. It seemed, rather, as if he simply _knew_ it. And, what more was the realisation that, unlike his mind palace, Sherlock could not delete this information. He couldn’t forget John liked oatmeal cookies any more than he could forget he liked glittery neon green.

All the evidence, all the blindingly painstakingly clear evidence.

There wasn’t much more to it. Sherlock loved John, more than he had thought was possible, so much it was terrifying, so much it was painful.

Sherlock Holmes, in love. Who would’ve thought?

But John didn’t want this; did he? Sherlock had gone through this already. He knew how straightforward John was. John stated his mind, his opinion, no matter how good, bad, or controversial. If Sherlock’s feelings were returned, John would’ve told him as soon as he could.

But why, then, did John always come back to him? Why, when they hugged, would John’s pulse speed up to match Sherlock’s 120 beats per minute? Why, in those moments of silence that follows a flurry of laughter or speech, did John’s pupils dilate?

Because, when they hugged, John was nervous. Because he didn’t know if Sherlock would be fine with it (Sherlock was much more than fine with it). Because, in those pauses, while Sherlock was caught up in John’s dark blue eyes (fading to brown in the centre), John was just _thinking._ Brain power tended to dilate pupils. Because John Watson loved danger and risks, and Sherlock Holmes was just that. John loved the things Sherlock brought to him—not Sherlock himself.

The kiss must have been a sporadic moment, blurred by relief and adrenaline. John was friends with Sherlock; he _wanted_ to be friends with Sherlock—that had already exceeded his wildest expectations. Wasn’t this enough?

 _No,_ said the stubborn part of him (a.k.a. all of him).

But he couldn’t do this, not now. He wasn’t going to break his only friendship in hopes of something more.

 _My, Sherlock,_ Mycroft’s voice drawled in his head, _you’re really in it deep this time._

 _Shut up, Mycroft._ Sherlock pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. _Stop thinking about your hopeless infatuation,_ he told his heart, and then turned to his brain.

Sherlock recalled the aftermath, the utter hauntedness in John’s eyes, the desperate pleas of apology, the running away.

He felt a wave of hurt wash over him, and nearly stopped in his tracks at the unexpectedness and abruptness and the sheer _volume_ of it. He furiously shoved it away, relying on his cold calculator mindset to reason his way out of this.

John regretted the kiss. His actions afterwards revealed as much.

So why had he done it?

Sherlock let loose a quiet laugh. He was reminded of why he avoided these attachments—it was just too bloody confusing.

He recalled saying something to John on the train: _sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side._

Sherlock was losing horribly. And he liked it.

If you asked him, affection, or, even more, love, was a much more potent drug than cocaine.

Sherlock hadn’t taken cocaine for four months (excluding his relapse the day after John’s birthday, but that was a _very_ special circumstance indeed), ever since John had expressed his horror at it. He had felt a twinge in his heart that grew into a twisting, relentless fear, that he would lose what he had with John, and stopped.

And he didn’t miss it. Because he had John Watson, because he had him and his comfort and his humour and perhaps just his presence, just that was enough. Because, unbeknownst to him at the time, his addiction had been replaced by a different drug—more specifically, dopamine, oxytocin, and serotonin.

Something told him this was an addiction he wouldn’t be able to quit.

Sherlock’s steps slowed. Sometime in this thought process, he had arrived in front of the Room of Requirement. He hadn’t even noticed. And it was only now that he realised that the particular thought process he had been going through was just the same things, over and over. Repeatingly.

Sherlock made a noise in his throat and pressed his palms to his eyes. This bloody sentiment might as well have eradicated his mind.

_And you like it!_

The door leading to wherever Sherlock wanted to go was right in front of him. He could pace back and forth and open the doors to his and John’s practise room, where Sherlock knew John enough to know that he was most likely in there at that very moment. They could talk. He could pretend nothing ever happened between them, and continue their friendship. He could apologise, for what he couldn’t make clear, but apologies were what was expected, weren’t they?

He could march through the doors, make a beeline to John, and snog him thoroughly. Seeing as John had kissed him and Sherlock was willing to let it pass, why couldn’t he?

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows and shook his head slightly. That was the absolute worst thing he could do; why had he even considered it as a possibility?

Well. Because he was terribly, horribly, brilliantly in love.

He stared at the doors for another second, wondering what in the world had happened to him. Then he abruptly turned around and walked away.

For the first time, this was a mystery he could not solve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, dear. I said I'd post weekly didn't I? Whoops.  
> In my defence, I was on vacation. I'll post weekly from now, promise. Hopefully. I mean, I'll try my best.


	33. A Tale of Two Idiots

It was only until he had walked up an entire flight of stairs that the surges of adrenaline began to die down and the pain seeped through. His jog slowed to a stride which slowed to a walk which, now, settled down into a limp.

John leaned his shoulder against the wall as he went his way down the hall, no particular goal in mind. At first he was a bit wary of the possibility of the wall suddenly revealing a secret entrance and swallowing him up. Then he remembered what he did, and the wariness turned to hope that it would do so.

He doggedly pushed the thought out of his mind, and turned his attention to the sharp pain in his knee.

Or, lack thereof.

There was no blood, no bone. Just… a strangely smooth, almost waxy surface where his left knee should be. John bent his leg and it stretched taut, sending waves of pain rolling over him once more.

_ Sod off, you stupid splinch,  _ John thought, and giggled deliriously. 

He supposed he could accio it, but he couldn’t accio anything from this far away, and there was no way he was going back to the lake right then because of the possibility of seeing Sherlock again, and didn’t he just say he wasn’t ready to think about that yet?

He could see the nurse, but he doubted she could do anything to a missing body part without the said detached body part present. Could she? John had a flashing vision of Donovan pulling out drawers filled with kneecaps and elbows. He winced and dashed it out of his mind.

After a minute of contemplation, John shifted his weight to his right leg and did a little jump, sliding his shoulder against the wall and barely brushing the floor with his left foot. 

_ Eh.  _ He shrugged.  _ Good enough. _ With this strange hop-lean-step-and-slide hybrid, he continued his way down the hall.

Thank God it was class time, he thought with what was left of his pride. If someone saw him like this, sopping wet, face completely red (not just from exertion) and hopping about with his left knee missing, John really didn’t know what he would say.

He also didn’t know where he was going, either. But his legs (er, leg) kept hopping, and he didn’t really care at this point so he let his subconsciousness lead the way.

He was letting his subconsciousness do a whole lot these days. It was getting to the point where he barely thought before doing anything, which most of the time was the worst thing he could ever do. 

John groaned. He had been trying to avoid this particular subject, but who was he kidding? He braced himself mentally and physically (relying on the wall a tad more), but when the thought fully settled through him, his pace still faltered and his heart still began to feel less like a normal person’s and more like a rabbit’s, and his face still felt as if it were being fanned into a roaring flame.

He kissed Sherlock. Sherlock-bloody-Holmes.

“Fuck,” John muttered, and pressed his forehead against the cool brick wall, which did nothing to help his impossibly flushed state.

He always tried to shove those thoughts away whenever they arisen, but in the hazy periods of twilight, the exhausted minutes past midnight, and now—his defense crumbled and his thoughts came without resistance.

With Sherlock, love, or even affection, seemed… taboo, he supposed. Like a thin layer of ice that no one dared to approach. But John did, and now everything was ruined.

Sherlock had  _ cringed  _ away, recoiled, his hands pushing at John’s chest, his entire body reeling back, frantic to get away.

John realised he had, subconsciously, half-stumbled-half-hopped over to the Room of Requirement. He hadn’t been thinking about anything in particular, but there was a door on the wall. He entered, and found himself in his and Sherlock’s practise room.

John staggered in, summoning up a beanbag chair that he gladly collapsed into. He shut his eyes and allowed his mind to spin further and further out of control.

What in the world had he been thinking? Why did he think there was even the slightest chance? It was  _ Sherlock Holmes,  _ the sociopath who dismissed Molly’s smitten state with no more than a wave of his hand, the calculating machine who thought love was a chemical defect.

But he was also Sherlock Holmes who had composed a bloody violin sonata for a birthday gift. Who feared being hurt, and hurting others. The boy who had given up his magic.

For  _ John. _

But suddenly, the bundle of warmth that had been rising in his chest was plunged into ice. 

Sherlock had done so much for him, and John repays him by stabbing him in the back. Sherlock trusted him, _as a friend,_ and John just had to take it further and lose all they had. He just had to want more, didn’t he? S herlock had thought John an exception? Apparently, he wasn’t.

He smothered his face into the beanbag fabric and groaned.  _ I love him,  _ he thought. It didn’t change anything.

_ He hates me,  _ he thought. It still didn’t change anything.

_ What the hell do I do? _

-+-+-+-

A muted pattering of raindrops fell against a curtain-drawn window. After turning  _ (you ran away, fled, like you always do, what a coward) _ from the Room of Requirement  _ (John)  _ Sherlock had entered his dormitory, and, sitting on a chair, rested the tips of his fingers, clasped together, on his chin, and closed his eyes.

He was… nowhere. A blank canvas, with words and phrases swirling around like leaves in a storm. He caught sight of a few of them, and groaned, shook his head, and concentrated furiously until his surroundings changed.

Times Square —

No, no, not that; Sherlock could already see the people morphing into John, but before he could leave, someone touched his shoulder and spun him around and kissed him.

Sherlock didn’t recoil, he didn’t flinch, he stayed desperately still save for a small unstoppable tremble, but the other still flung himself away like he had been burned.

This was familiar, a small thought niggled at his mind. But this time, instead of mocking him, calling him freak, John was looking at him with horror, and regret.

Sherlock knew that wasn’t how John had looked, he remembered his expression, he had it filed away—but the John in front of him right now seemed so real, and the regret was etched so deeply on his face.

“I’m so sorry,” he rushed out. “I don’t want—that. I don’t.” He shuddered.

“But you kissed me,” Sherlock mumbled, feeling his face flare up.

John shook his head vehemently.  _ “God,  _ no,” he spat. “You’re a damn sociopath. I don’t think anyone could love you.”

And it was different this time, he had heard similar before, but it was always about him, always “you can never love anyone”. Not like this.

Sherlock made a small, helpless noise, putting a hand over his eyes, and when he opened them again, he was sitting in his dormitory—alone.

This was terrible, revolted the side of him that was pragmatic, practical—cold. Unacceptable. He had devoted so much mind, so much thought, into this one person, when there was no reason to be. 

But there was. Sherlock wanted this, he wanted it so bad, he didn’t think he ever felt a yearning for anything as much as he did for John. 

Could he still solve this case? Might there be a chance for Sherlock to fix this?  _ Please. I just want John back. _

(Pathetic.)

Maybe… Sherlock’s mind flashed to the cabinet in the passageway on fourth floor, a stash, a last reserve. Numbing euphoria, where he wouldn’t have to care about what he thought, wouldn’t think about it, an oxymoron of lethargic energy, bliss.

_ Pathetic!  _

Sherlock swore, stood up abruptly, and strode over to the corner of the room where he kept his violin. 

He didn’t need to  _ stop _ thinking, he needed to think  _ more.  _

The bow streaked smooth across the strings, sleek and steady, soothing. Serene. Angles, pressure, press and release: science. A constant, unfaltering knowledge, complete control of what will come.

Sherlock wanted this. He wanted to have control, to know what will happen. 

He enjoyed mysteries because it challenged this. When he chased down an illegal dragon breeder the Ministry had been searching for months, when a student is found, Petrified, in the middle of a classroom; it was exciting, it was thrilling and exhilarating, it pumped adrenaline through his veins and sent his heart into a steady rush.

Perhaps he didn’t want complete certainty. Perhaps it was only an excuse. Perhaps he didn’t want complete chaos, either. Perhaps he needed a bit of both.

_ I don’t think perhaps is a word anymore. _

Sherlock smiled. Sometime in his thoughts, he had switched from Brahms to playing the song he had made for John.

He realised that he didn’t know what was going to happen. He didn’t know what to do, how John felt —how  _ he  _ felt, even—but it was okay. It was going to be okay, because he needed that uncertainty in his life. 

Of course, even still, he wasn’t going to make a move. He couldn’t risk that much—to pour his heart out in front of a potentially (probably?) uninterested John. No, he would wait for him. For as long as it would take.

-+-+-+-

It was only when the chatter of students got louder and when they suddenly appeared, filing into their classrooms, that John glanced at his bright orange watch and realised that he had missed lunch. He found that he wasn't hungry.

I'm turning into Sherlock, he thought sardonically, and headed to his next class. His legs had adapted, in a way, to walk without a knee, and it almost went unnoticed now. He barely limped. John knew he’d have to retrieve his knee at one point or another, but for now, this worked fine enough.

How many classes had he missed? Honestly, his professors seemed not to care at all. They never even did attendance. When he pointed this out to Mike one day, he had just laughed and said, "if you don't go to any of the classes but do brilliantly on the O.W.L.s, well, it doesn't really matter, yeah? As long as they're sure you didn't cheat. They're bloody good at that."

Then, John had laughed with him, saying, "Hey, I've got Sherlock to tutor me. It's the most he can do considering he's the reason I skip the classes."

But that wasn't happening any more, and while John had an extremely strong urge to head to his dormitory and mope the entire day, the O.W.L.s had snuck up on him until it was only a few days until the exams started. John really didn’t know if attending this one class was going to help at all, but when he thought this he was already in the room.

Sherlock wasn't there, and it sent a wave of relief crashing over John but also a twinge of disappointment. Bloody hell, did he already miss him?

He sat down at his usual spot and suddenly realised that his Transfiguration textbook was nowhere to be seen. He swore under his breath and prayed they wouldn't be needing it.

"Hello, students," said the professor once most of the classroom was full. "This will be a study and review period. Everything you need to know about the written exam is in your textbooks, and if you can successfully turn, say, a mouse into a teacup, you will do just fine. Now, let's make the most of our time, and I wish you all good luck."

As the students around him hustled to work, reading textbooks, turning quills to spoons and hair clips to butterflies, John sat in his seat and wondered if he should follow along and just furiously turn various, miscellaneous things, into other things of the same sort. He doubted his patronus would work.

"Hello, John," came a soft voice from behind him. 

As he looked at the part-Veela, John thought it strange that he didn't feel much attraction to her anymore. Irene Adler was pretty: stunning, in fact —but he remembered being barely able to take his eyes off her the first time they met, and, now,  the only thing he seemed to be captivated by was her eyes, the strangely narrow opal eyes that were very similar to another pair of eyes belonging to someone who John was really trying very hard not to think of.

So when Irene immediately followed with, "Did you and Sherlock have a little domestic?" John couldn't stop the hysterical laugh that bubbled up. He's been having a lot of hysteria lately, he thought, which didn’t help.

John fought off another round of giggles. "If you can call kissing him that, then, yeah."

A beat, and then Irene tossed her head back and laughed.

John bristled, thinking that, maybe, the stereotype about ditzy Veelas was right, but then Irene leaned in all of a sudden, placing his hands on John's shoulders and gazing at him intensely.

"You kissed him? About time! Oh, Merlin, no wonder Sherlock's not here, he must be overjoyed."

John gaped, then swallowed, then opened his mouth, closed it, swallowed again, and, finally, opened it again, and what came out of him was a manic giggle.

"I don't think you understand," he said, knowing he sounded condescending and rude but too far gone to care (my god, he really was turning into Sherlock).

"Oh, no, no." Irene shook her head violently. "You don't understand. John Watson, I know Sherlock. I’ve dated him for two years, no matter if any of it was real or not.  And I am part Veela. So believe me when I say Sherlock Holmes is hopelessly in love with you."

John rolled his eyes. "Irene, stop it. It's Sherlock Holmes."

"Exactly."

John bit his tongue and sighed. "Look, Sherlock, he’s… odd.”

“Odd.” Irene’s voice was bland. John winced.

“Well, he is,” he protested. “He knows someone’s life story within a minute of meeting them. He solves cases for the Ministry of Magic. And he’s fifteen! He’s…”  _ Screw it _ . “He’s brilliant, and ridiculously good-looking. And he’s not even remotely interested in a romantic attachment. Just forget it." 

Irene listened with pursed lips. Her expression changed, hardened a bit, so little that the only way John noticed was because he was so used to reading Sherlock's. She held John's gaze for another second, and then abruptly turned away.

"All right, then," she said casually. "How's your Transfiguration?"

John was taken aback for a second. "My teacups still squeak sometimes," he said stupidly.

Irene looked confused for a millisecond, and then she laughed.

-+-+-+-

Sherlock was agitated. He had attempted to get in touch with the Ministry of Magic for any cases, giving in, glad for a distraction from all this horribly perplexing sentiment. He took the train and then a vehicle called a cab (the driver was planning an anniversary present for his girlfriend. Wilted, on-sale roses and cheap dollar store chocolates. He had a fancy, freshly-tailored suit and tie. Sherlock told him that if he didn’t love her it was pointless to continue on. He took two cabs that day.)

But once he got to the entrance they would not open, not even with Mycroft’s password. When he crossed his arms and glared at the button camera in the corner (muggle technology, extremely easy to corrupt but very unpredictable) he had gotten no response.

Not knowing the reason behind this unfair forbiddenness, Sherlock threw his arms up in the air and turned away.

Which was the moment that someone appeared in front of him.

“Sherlock,” said Mycroft, formally.

“Brother dear,” said Sherlock, dripping with scorn. “Why am I being refused entry?”

“You know.”

“I do not,” Sherlock gritted out.

Mycroft eyed him for a second, and then sighed. He walked past Sherlock towards the gate, spinning his wand around his wrist. “You’re confused. This is quite dismal. I should have focused less on your mind and more on your heart.”

Sherlock sneered. “I don’t think that would have been necessary.”

Mycroft hummed and looked Sherlock over. 

“I’m not in the mood for your deductions,” Sherlock snapped. “Tell me what you want.”

Turning back around, Mycroft came closer to Sherlock, looking him in the eyes. Sherlock glared back, two pairs of blue-grey eyes, similar—but not the same. Sherlock's gaze was smouldering, jagged, and angled; fire behind a thin layer of ice. Mycroft’s eyes were colder, more precise, like  deadly lightning.

“I care about you,” Mycroft said after a beat.

Sherlock’s gaze flickered for a millisecond before returning. “Do you?”

“Yes, Sherlock,” Mycroft said, sounding like he was tired of explaining this. “I’m your brother. I care.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything, but the edge in his eyes slowly softened. “What is it, Mycroft?” he asked, less severe.

“John Watson.” Mycroft never took his eyes off Sherlock, and Sherlock knew and tried to keep his features schooled, but he knew from the satisfied look in Mycroft’s eyes that he had failed.

“What about him,” Sherlock deadpanned.

Mycroft’s lips curled. “I thought you were above the average intelligence.”

Sherlock glowered. “I’m not accustomed with anything involving sentiment.”

Mycroft’s expression didn’t falter, but he tilted his head slightly. “Why have you not gone to him yet?”

Sherlock frowned slightly. “Clarify,” he clipped out.

“I’ll baby it down,” said Mycroft, intending for the line to cause Sherlock to wince. “You are in love with him. He is in love with you. You are both avoiding each other when you can be..." he smiled, thinly but almost teasingly (or, teasingly in relation to Mycroft)—"coddling and snogging each other’s hearts out.”

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake,” Sherlock snapped, stopping the flush that fought to surge up to his face. “you don’t know that.”

“I do.” Mycroft’s voice had changed intonation. Sherlock looked closer at him, and, with a jolt of shock, saw a gentleness in his eyes _(sentiment?)_ —but not directed to him: the gaze appeared faraway.

_ Oh. _

“Lestrade,” Sherlock murmured.

Mycroft appeared to return to the present.

“I’ve done it,” he said softly. “You’ve always tried to match me equally, if not better. It’s your turn, little brother.”

He turned on the spot and disappeared—the bloody dramatic git, the door was right there.

Sherlock had stayed at the spot for a full minute, reviewing the conversation in his head and coming to the realisation that there were no secret messages, codes, or intonations. Which, then, he had returned to Hogwarts, where he  paced around the castle, Mycroft’s words replaying in his head along with bursts of thoughts about John, pouting and running his fingers through his hair, wondering since when it had gotten this bad.

He turned a corner and nearly crashed into someone, who, upon seeing him, grabbed his arm so tightly Sherlock feared it would cut off his circulation, and hauled him through half a hallway, opened a door with the hand that wasn't gripping to Sherlock like a vise, and then dragged him into the empty classroom.

It took Sherlock three full seconds to glance over to the person and say, "I see it's working out with Charles." (Three full seconds! Honestly! He was losing his touch.)

Irene completely ignored this, instead focusing on squeezing Sherlock's forearm hard enough her fingers turned white. Sherlock internally winced a bit, but kept his face blank.

Irene looked at Sherlock for a long time, then she flung all her hair to one side and sighed dramatically. (Sherlock was irrationally jealous; he was supposed to be the dramatic one .  Perhaps he shall grow his hair out. John would hate that, but it didn't matter what John thought anymore, did it?)

"Sherlock Holmes, you are utterly truly madly deeply in love and so is John and you need to tell each other."

Sherlock was silent, taken aback, but then he sneered. "You don't know that."

Irene glared at him with her eyes like slits. "John is convinced you are a complete sociopath and have an inability to love. Prove him wrong."

She tossed her hair so that it cascaded down the back of her neck, sending over a fragrance of violets, and went away.

Sherlock stayed in that room for exactly three more minutes, tapping his fingers on his legs (thinking tick) and pacing around in a waltz stepping pattern (nervous tick). 

He always prided himself on his ability to read people, but he couldn’t for the life of him figure out John —or Sherlock himself for that matter. But Irene Adler? She was part Veela. And Mycroft, his older brother, who knew Sherlock all his life, who pretty much was the one who made Sherlock who he was. If both of them said so… Merlin help him, his mind was being influenced, he knew that, but he also didn't know how to stop it.

Maybe he could work something out.

-+-+-+-

It becomes apparent that anything involving Sherlock Holmes becomes the number one scandal in the school. News of John and Sherlock spreads like wildfire, and, without John beside Sherlock, there is no one to stop the rumours from amplifying into grotesque versions of the truth. Sara had approached John one day in the Room of Requirement, and after a couple minutes of talking, it was clear everyone had a different idea of what had happened. She had thought John ended things with Sherlock because Sherlock had lost his magic, and wasn’t  _ “well… as impressive?”  _ anymore. (John had to leave the room.)

People had tried approaching Sherlock, but obviously that didn’t bode very well, so John became Hogwart’s Most Wanted for gossip.

The kiss was old news by now, but for a lot of people they heard it as much more than a kiss.

John hated it. He hated it so much he nearly begged Anderson to let him leave school early. But that would only further egg on the drama, wouldn’t it?

He stayed quiet, said the occasional “yeah” or “nope, that didn’t happen”, careful not to say more, knowing that everything he said only served to feed the flames. The more he did this, the more curious others got, and the more the rumours went. Catch 22, really.

The Muggle Club, once a place of sanctuary, to relax, became dreadful. People called John a part of their club —a different club, the “Sherlocked” (Christ, he hated that name), and now John was no exception.

But he  _ was,  _ John knew he and Sherlock weren’t the same as Sherlock and any of them, but then again, that’s what they all say.

Yeah, it was petty and dramatic, everything about this, but they were teenagers, after all, and gossip was something that would be present, even in a magical school. 

For once, he was glad the O.W.L’s were coming up. It drew some, if only some, attention away. 

He hoped to God there wouldn’t be a boggart in his exam. And, he tried—he couldn’t cast a patronus.

-+-+-+-

John chewed the end of his pencil (the professors eventually gave up and let him use it, but forced him to use parchment which proved to be of some difficulty but John was stubborn and didn’t switch to a quill, because that would’ve been even more tedious) and drew another pair of legs. He looked at it for a second, then erased one of them.

“I have no idea what I’m doing,” he said to no one in particular. The professor shushed him with a look. She was being rather strict for a mock-exam. John couldn’t fathom how the actual one would go. Hopefully (but not likely) better than this one.

Someone giggled, and John looked to his left to see Molly Hooper smiling at him. John wiggled his eyebrows meaningfully and tapped his pencil on his paper. Molly rolled her eyes and gave John a sympathetic smile and a slight shake of her head.

The professor cleared his throat and gave John a pointed look. John muttered something that sounded like an apology and drew another pair of legs, but longer.

The moment the bell rang, John jumped out of his seat, took a long look at the drawing on the top of the professor’s desk, looked back at his, looked at the professor who was watching John very carefully, and sighed, threw his parchment (which was horribly crumpled and had a hole in the middle from all his erasing) onto the desk, and sulked away.

As he walked down the halls he felt someone touch his shoulder.

“Hi, John,” said Molly with a lingering look of pity. “Sorry I couldn’t help you. I could help you study later on. I wanted to earlier, but I couldn’t find you anywhere. You weren’t even at the classes.”

“Oh. No worries.” John smiled. “I was with Sherlock.” The words escaped his lips before he could think. 

John froze. God, he was an idiot. It was like he was bragging, but he wasn’t, because John and Sherlock weren’t friends anymore, but that just made it worse, now, because John knew exactly how Molly felt.

Beginning to stammer out an apology, John opened his mouth, but then shut it.

He remembered when Sherlock barged into the library one winter day, demanding John to help him in one of his experiments. Sherlock had not even looked in Molly’s direction before he swept John out and away. But John had, and he saw the look in Molly’s eyes as they settled on Sherlock’s hand on John’s back, ushering him out the doors, and her tight smile, and her quiet, barely-there goodbye.

But Molly did not have that look. Her eyes had not flickered but rolled, her smile did not tighten but turned a playful sort of teasing.

It took John a moment to realise he had not spoken for a long time.

It was only then that Molly’s smile turned a bit sad.

“I’m over it, you know.” She shook her head and tucked a strand of hair behind her ears. “I know it’s hard to believe. But I am. I still like him —I don’t think that will ever change, Merlin help me—but that’s part of the reason I’m moving on. Because I like him enough to let him like someone else.”

“Er—yeah!” John froze, then nodded. “Yeah, that’s—that’s good.”

Molly gave him a meaningful look. “You better not let that go to waste.”

John paused, rewound, and replayed Molly’s words. “Oh,” he said. “Oh, no. I’m—”

Suddenly Molly grabbed John’s shoulders and spun him around. When John turned his head back, she was gone, blended in with the crowd.

John furrowed his eyebrows and turned his head back. He froze.

Sherlock was looking at John. Actually, no, that was a euphemism. Sherlock’s eyes were fixated with John’s in a way that John felt like he was being lit on fire. 

_ Oh, Christ.  _ He tried to tear his eyes away but the only thing he managed to do was to shift them from Sherlock’s eyes. To his lips. Well, shit.

Sherlock's lips turned up into a smirk. John's train of thought, only recently repaired, careened off the tracks and tumbled down a cliff. 

Was he supposed to say something?

“Um,” John said, and immediately choked on his own spit.

Launching into a coughing fit, he caught Sherlock’s eyes again, and found them looking both amused and a tad exasperated, mingling with more emotions that he couldn’t make out, but he thought there was satisfaction in there.

Sherlock turned around with a billow of his robe, and walked away, leaving a very confused and very, very flustered John.

-+-+-+-

The rest of the day sort of went by in a daze from that point on. If Sherlock wasn’t at least  _ intrigued,  _ he wouldn’t have done…  _ that _ —right?

John was still thinking this as he walked into his dorm for the night, trying to call up Sherlock’s expression but finding the memory muddled and dazed (he knew why).

There was a package on his pillow.

John froze, as judging from the events that had happened throughout this school year, things on his pillow were never good.

Nevertheless he picked it up, and felt a heaviness in his heart at seeing the gold ribbon tied around the box — a fancy knot he was all too familiar with.

Sherlock had tried teaching it to him — tried being the emphasis here. John had struggled and yanked and twisted and turned with a string until it frayed enough for him to break it in half, praying to the boy scout gods for a successful knot. Sherlock had tried to demonstrate but John kept getting distracted at watching those fingers twist around, effortlessly guiding the string through loops and bends, ridiculously elegant, and oh dear, he had already been so hopeless.

John blinked and stared at the knot and groaned. He was so utterly hopeless. It was devastating.

"Stop it, John," he mumbled out loud, and accio-d a pair of scissors on his desk and snipped the ribbon and, after a moment of steeling himself, opened the box.

"Oh, god, Sherlock!" The words escaped him without him noticing. He didn’t mean to say it, and it surprised him slightly — not the exclamation, that is, but rather the addition of a name attached to the end of it. John had gotten so used to saying phrases expressing shock with Sherlock's name that it was embedded into his mind. Great.

But it was Sherlock either way, he knew, because there was no one else in the entire world who would do this.

John closed his eyes and took a deep inhale. He exhaled slowly, shakily, as he reached inside the box and took out a kneecap.

He turned it over in his hands and blinked slowly.

_ What the fuck do I do with this? _

And then he couldn't help it, he giggled, and then he laughed, he laughed like a maniac until tears skittered down his cheeks and his stomach stung with pain.

"Oh, god, Sherlock," he said again. Was he supposed to superglue it back on?

There was a cough.

John turned to see Mike Stamford, standing in the doorway and giving John such a look that it set him off again.

"Er — you alright there, mate?" Mike asked carefully.

John only held out the kneecap as a reply.

"What's that?"

"Kneecap," John said.

Mike pressed his lips together and raised his eyebrows _.  _ Looking like he thought John had gone mad. He probably had.

"Sherlock," John then said as clarification — all the clarification it needed. Honestly, anything could be explained with "Sherlock". Mike could find John in the middle of the forest smothering peanut butter all over his naked body and all John would have to say was "Sherlock" and he would go, "Ah, ok. I see. Carry on."

"I see," Mike said, although still looking slightly pained.

Smothering down what was undoubtedly going to be another hysterical bout of giggles, John sighed, put the chunk of flesh and bone on his (lack of) knee, and gave Mike a wonky smile.

“Any ideas on how to reattach this?” 

Mike scratched his ear. “Um, yeah actually.”

“Really?” John said incredulously. Then, he rolled his eyes. “Oh, well, I mean, it’s a magical school full of kids. Of course there’s a spell to reattach body parts.”

“Ah, well, it’s more with splinching, but there is a spell to detach body parts, too.” Grinning, Mike took out his wand and pointed it at the knee balancing on John’s leg. “Denuo corporis,” he said, and John felt a slight tingling sensation. He watched with amazement and slight disgust as the skin knitted itself back together, almost melting and reforming, until it looked as good as new.

“Wow,” he mumbled, rubbing his newly-attached knee. “You can just do that?” He tilted his head. “That’s a bit alarming.”

“Hey, muggles have their alarming things, too.” Mike picked up a textbook and began sifting through it. “Aren’t there… guns, right?”

John chewed on his inner cheek. “Yeah,” he said slowly. “But…”

“But nothing.” Mike gave John a sideways smile. “The wizarding world isn’t much different from the muggle world. We all have the potential to do something big, good or bad. It’s just if you choose to do it.”

John hummed. “That’s surprisingly deep,” he finally said. “I was talking about attaching, say, your foot to your head.”

Mike laughed. “I’m sure someone has done that before.”

“Definitely.” John stood up and paced back and forth, feeling his leg bend with only a slight fading ache.

“So…” Mike pointed at John’s knee. “Apparition accident? Sherlock wasn’t paying attention?”

And there it was.

John stopped walking. Mike hadn't said anything before this moment, but John knew how much he wanted to. He was grateful for it, the lack of questions, but it was also in a way suffocating, feeling that unspoken barrier hanging over them all the time. It was almost a relief to hear him ask.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Mike rushed out, face red. “I don’t want to prod.”

“No, no, it’s fine,” John said absentmindedly, because it really was. He had restrained himself from talking too much about this particular subject, but it was constantly on his mind, always on the verge of bursting out. Charles Milverton was right: John really did always need someone to talk to, even if that someone was himself on occasions. Even if that someone was a weird posh slight-sociopath. Mike Stamford was a welcome substitute, and one of the more normal ones, too.

“It was me,” he said, choosing his words carefully over the flurry of them inside his mind, fighting to to spill out now that he allowed himself to. “Apparition gives me bonus points so Sherlock convinced me to to try it. I suppose I didn’t do very well,” he admitted, looking down at his knee.

Mike didn’t respond immediately and John looked up to see him looking back at John with an open mouth.

“What?”

“John.” Mike put his hands to his head. “Apparition is one of the most difficult skills a wizard can do! You only splinched a kneecap?!”

“Um.” John felt a flush rise to his face as he nodded. 

There was an awkward silence.  “I also learned non-verbal spells," John blurted out in an attempt to break it.

_"What?"_  Mike looked slightly dazed. “That’s… great,” he managed.

John smiled, a bit tentatively. He said nothing more and Mike continued flipping through the textbook, although not with much vigour —his eyes constantly flitted up to John, and he would eye him with a strange look and shake his head slightly.

John became increasingly uncomfortable under this scrutiny (you’d think he’d get used to it, what with Sherlock looking at him with those eyes all the time), and the thoughts in his mind swirled into a blizzard, desperate to escape.

“I kissed him,” he said.

“That’s nice,” Mike said, completely casually. John frowned, and waited for Mike to actually hear what he had said. It never happened.

“Mike. I kissed Sherlock.”

“Yes, congratulations.” Mike turned a page. What the fuck?  
“Mike!” John took two steps towards him. “Have your ear flaps closed off?” (What was that? Jeez, he was affected by Sherlock.) “I. Kissed. Sherlock. Holmes.”

Mike slowly shut his textbook and looked up at John with a tilted head. “I heard you the first time, mate. I’m happy you’re finally telling me, but I’m not giving you a present.”

John gave Mike the same look Mike had gave him upon seeing John holding up his kneecap and laughing like a maniac. Probably a stronger one than that, actually. “What in the world are you talking about?” 

Mike drew his eyebrows together. “What are  _ you?” _

It took both of them a while.

An incredulous laugh escaped John’s lips. “You’re taking the piss.”

Shaking his head, Mike placed the textbook on their desk and stood up. “No, you are.”

“I… no.” John rubbed his eyes.

“You and Sherlock…” Mike trailed off with a confused look.

"Why did you think everyone was gossiping about?"

"You two broke up!" Mike threw his arms up in the air. John felt like doing the same.

“Sherlock and I are just friends," John said.

Mike gave John the same look John gave Mike. Which was the look he had originally gave John. This particular scenario seemed to require a lot of this look. He shook his head again and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“John. John Watson. I have known Sherlock since Tott’s Daycare. I’ve seen his friends. You are not Sherlock’s friend.”

“Not anymore,” John muttered.

“No." Mike raised a finger. "You were never Sherlock’s friend.”

“Wow, okay.”

“Oh—Merlin, no, not like that!” Mike shook his head violently. “I mean, John, that… that, I’ve never seen him happier. Like,  _ ever.  _ I’ve seen him when he’s finished insulting a professor, or when he’s cracked a case, but he’s never been this happy, never for this long. Or this much. I don’t know how in the world you did it, seeing as Irene Adler tried and failed, but…” Mike looked at John—“somehow you’ve gotten Sherlock Holmes.”

John’s chest was gradually getting tighter and tighter, constricted and pained with the attempt to stop, stop those impossible thoughts, but Mike’s eyes were completely steady and his hands stayed by his side, and he remembered when Mike had copied his homework once and, talking to the professor later that day, how his eyes flitted from side to side, how his fingers drummed on his leg. A tick, a giveaway, that he didn’t display now.

Okay, thought the part of John that refused to hope. Okay. Maybe Mike thought he was telling the truth. But that didn’t mean it was actually it.

“He doesn’t want it.” said that part of John. “He was basically disgusted. You’ve seen how he treats Molly.”

“That’s because he doesn’t like Molly,” said Mike, exasperated.

John opened his mouth, then closed it with a childish glare. Mike sighed.

“Sherlock likes you, John. A lot. Even love, if you may. Really. If you didn’t know that… I don’t know how you can be so unobservant.”

“Thanks.” John scratched his neck. “So.”

Mike rolled his eyes. “Get him in one of those secret rooms and snog him.”

“What the hell?!” John blushed furiously. “No. I am not snogging Sherlock Holmes.”

“Do you want to?”

John inhaled sharply and glared.

Mike winked. “There you go, mate.”

“I can’t—he doesn’t—” John sputtered. “I’m not doing anything until he does.”

Mike laughed, and shook his head. “Oh, you two are unbelievable.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this is a long chapter. A good thing?  
> Also, Sherlock and John are being very very confusing, I know. But they are teenagers and in love, so it's expected.  
> 


	34. Fucking Finally

One moment he’s trailing his fingers against the wall, mumbling spells under his breath as he heads to his dorm for another free period of laying in his bed, randomly texting his parents, and daydreaming—or, as he liked to call it, “studying”—and the next moment somebody is sprinting straight towards him like a bullet.

John screams out of habit before his brain kicks in.

“Irene?”

Irene Adler doesn’t say a word, just grabs John by the arm and spins.

A tugging in his stomach later, they find themselves in another random passageway. Only it isn’t random, because Sherlock Holmes is standing so close to where they appear that John knocks his forehead against Sherlock's jaw.

Sherlock’s eyes widen and he lets out the only scream John ever hears from him. He turns and bolts.

Irene curses. “Stay,” she shoots at John, and takes off as well.

John blinks. And blinks some more.

Once his eyes reassure him that they are both extremely well moisturized and do not need further care, John sits down in the middle of the hallway and wonders what in the world is going on this time.

About a minute later, Irene returns, grim-faced and gripping Sherlock by the forearm.

“Why would you do such a thing?” Sherlock is saying.

“If I had my way you would’ve done this a long time ago.” Irene grunts as Sherlock twists away and lunges towards the opposite direction. “Merlin, Sherlock, grow some nerves!”

“You’ve betrayed me,” Sherlock accuses.

“I’m doing you a favour.” Irene shoves Sherlock towards John and sharply claps her hands together. “You have the most infuriating boyfriend in the world,” she declares, and walks away.

John looks up (the height difference is atrocious) and finds himself so close to Sherlock that he is able to make out the contours of his face. He looks like a bloody _after_ photo of a makeover, or plastic surgery or something. Although he tries not to think about this, John is sure he is staring, tracing his eyes across impossibly unfair cheekbones, then lower.

He chides himself and looks away. _Oh, God, I’m bloody hopeless,_ he thinks, and focuses on Irene’s back.

The girl turns her head back around, sees the two of them practically chest-to-chest, smiles a bit, and turns a corner.

The moment she does, Sherlock pretty much falls over getting away from John.

“Sorry about that,” he mutters, and immediately turns on his heels and leaves.

John watches Sherlock’s bright red ears as he breaks off into a run. He sits back down on the floor.

A group of third-year Hufflepuffs find him in the exact same position five minutes later.

-+-+-+-

It hasn’t even been half an hour.

This time it’s Sherlock who pops up right in front of John, and this time John is actually walking, and he is not being very attentive to where he is walking, either, and this time, John collides straight into him. He yelps, and would’ve toppled both of them over if not for Sherlock, whose arms instinctively wrap around the other and steadies them both. Warm lips brush up against his forehead.

Blood rushes to John’s face so fast he fears he might faint.

Sherlock makes a strangled sound, looking absolutely horrified, and turns away, only to see Irene Adler right behind him.

She is positively glowing with frustration. She glowers at Sherlock and then she’s grabbing John by the arm; she spins and they’re in a small, empty room.

Irene leans in close to John. “Don’t try anything,” she hisses in her ear. “I’m not keeping you prisoner—” she takes out the Elder wood wand from John’s front robe pocket—“but I suggest you keep Sherlock in here with you—" she slips the wand into the back pocket of John’s pants—“if you want Sherlock to ever admit how completely besotted he is.”

She puts her hands on his shoulders and gently pushes him back until he’s against the wall. She taps the wand that’s now hidden behind John and winks. “Stay,” she says, and then she is gone.

John plays Irene’s words over and over in his head.

She reappears with a seething Sherlock whose eyes widen upon seeing John. He shoots Irene a furious glare. “I demand you to release me.”

She purses her lips. “Mm, no. Not yet.”

Sherlock shakes his head wildly. “This isn’t going to work!”

“I’m part Veela, darling, I think I know more about this particular subject than you, and you are going to stay in this room until you confess.” Irene smiles sweetly. “Good luck.”

Sherlock opens his mouth, but she is already gone.

“This isn’t right, she’s ruined everything,” Sherlock is muttering, his hands shoved into his curls, pacing back and forth across the tiny confined space. He whirls towards the wall and begins running his fingers along the surface, glancing up and down, all around.

After a second of this, he places a hand flat against the wall and snarls. Then he turns to poor John, who has slid down to the floor now, watching Sherlock silently.

“Get out your wand,” he says urgently. Then he turns over a hand. “Well technically it had been mine but you’re in possession of it, so ours?”

And, however dazed John is, he still has to smile a bit, because this is not the best time to argue over the correct possessive pronoun.

Irene’s words float into his mind. “It doesn’t matter,” John murmurs, making a show of patting down his front pockets. “She took it.”

Sherlock groans and slumps against the wall across from John.

There is nothing from either of them for two minutes and fifteen seconds. Then, Sherlock raises his head and gives John a weak smile.

“Well,” he says, his voice hesitant. “I guess we’re Sher-locked in here.”

John raises his own head very, very slowly. Sherlock grimaces. “Not good?”

“I guess this is our _Holme_ now,” John says with a straight face.

Their eyes meet.

They begin to laugh.

John leans his head back against the wall. “What is going on?” he says with a sorrowful shake of his head.

Sherlock crosses his arms. “Irene is being utterly insufferable. She thinks she knows everything and the solutions as well.”

“Wow, that sounds terrible,” John says dryly.

Sherlock huffs. “She is interloping herself into something she shouldn’t be involved in!”

John sighs. “Hard to believe anyone would do that.”

“She doesn’t even warn me before suddenly dragging me off to somewhere I don’t know!”

“Holy shit, what a wanker.” John doesn’t know how he can possibly sound more sarcastic.

Sherlock takes in a breath, apparently about to start on another point, and then he stops. He scrutinizes John. “You’re not being genuine.”

“Excellent, Holmes. You are positively scintillating today.”

Sherlock furrows his brow. Then it clears. “Oh.”

John tries to hide a smile.

Sherlock looks away. He walks around his side of the room in a weird rhythm: _step-slide-slide_. He scowls. “I should’ve gone with Plan A.”

“And what’s that?”

“Operation Azkaban,” Sherlock responds offhandedly.

John frowns. “A for Azkaban?”

Sherlock nods. John raises his eyebrows.

“A for abso-fucking-lutely not. I’ll have to thank Irene for this sabotage.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, and says nothing. Neither of them speak.

At one point Sherlock ends up staring straight at John. He seems fixated with a strong curiosity that isn’t affected by how horribly John is blushing, or how much he tries to look at anything but back at Sherlock.

A couple minutes later, John has a full and detailed understanding of the _Elephant in the Room,_ but he isn't going to say it first, dammit.

He succeeds, as, after an eternity of awkward silence, it’s Sherlock who speaks first.

“John,” he starts, slowly, carefully. “The day at the Great Lake. I had not expected—”

“For me to kiss you?” John interrupts.

Sherlock nods, a little haltingly. John is panicking but tries his best to act aloof. “Hmm, me neither.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows draw together. He speaks slowly. “You regretted it.”

John looks up. “What?”

“You apologised profusely and ran away.”

“I—” John bites his lip and looks away. “Isn’t it obvious?”

 _“No,”_ Sherlock says, with more force than necessary.

John thinks there must be a groove in the bridge of his nose where he pinches it so often. “Well, what do you think?”

Sherlock grits his teeth. “I don’t know.”

“You’re taking the piss. You have to be.”

“There is no urine here for me to collect, unless you would be—”

_“Sherlock!”_

Sherlock smiles fleetingly. _“That_ was me taking the piss. Not before.”

John snickers despite himself, but it soon fades. He shakes his head. “You really don’t know,” he says disbelievingly.

“I am rather uneducated in this subject,” Sherlock says through previously gritted teeth.

“Bloody hell.” John takes a deep breath. “Right. Er.” (Was he really doing this?) “Remember when you said sentiment was a chemical defect found in the losing side? Um…” (God, how was he supposed to say this?) “I am losing. Horrendously. Because of you.” (Well, there it goes.) “I’ve been losing since a long time ago I think.”

He smiles weakly at Sherlock, who looks quite stunned. “I’m not good with metaphors,” John adds. “But I think you can work this out.”

Sherlock doesn’t speak for quite a while, and when he does it’s faltering and barely audible. “You… are attracted to me in a way that is more than platonic.”

“Fabulous deduction!” John does some awkward jazz hands.

Sherlock stares. And stares.

And stares.

“Are you… blinking?” John says stupidly at one point. (He isn’t.)

Sherlock’s expression is so concentrated that John feels like ants are crawling up and down outside his body, joining the butterflies that are inside, that, based on how John is feeling right now, are either on a murderous rampage or having a completely piss-drunk, pandemonium-filled party.

Sherlock’s gaze does not waver. John feels like he might be in danger of catching on fire.

“Okay, it’s just getting scary now.”

“How?” Sherlock says suddenly, _still_ not looking away—or blinking, for that matter. Jesus.

“Wh—how?” John was finding this situation more and more absurd. “What do you mean, _how?”_

“I am patronising, pretentious, arrogant, annoying, and generally unpleasant. I am more than well aware of my _unlovableness.”_

John doesn’t say anything for a second.

“Oh, _Sherlock.”_ His arms twitch in restraint from hugging the (brilliant, mad, genius) boy. “You’re not!” he falters. “I mean, you _are_ in some circumstances, but it’s part of your charm!” Sherlock quirks an eyebrow and he backpedals. “Everyone is… all that occasionally. You just, uh, have more of it…” John frowns.

Sherlock’s lips twitch. “You’re not very good at compliments, are you?”

John shoots him a glare and searches for better words.

“You are amazing,” he finally begins. “You are the most unique and quirky person I will ever have the pleasure of knowing. You don’t show it very well but you’re kind, you really are. You’re thoughtful and considerate. I know you don’t seem that way, but it’s only because you don’t try; because you don’t want to be. You’re pretentious, you’re patronising, because you’re afraid—to… to get hurt again, I suppose. But what I’ve seen from you is nothing like the first impression. And that’s why I, as you put it, am attracted to you.” He looks away, blushing, suddenly self-aware. “In more than a platonic manner.”

A silence follows, so tangible John can almost feel it crackling in the air. Finally, he gives in.

He gulps and looks back at Sherlock, and the flimsy joke he has prepared dies instantly in his throat.

 _Shit,_ he thinks, but he can’t look away.

Sherlock’s face is flushed. His lips parted, those damn cheekbones tinted high with colour, and his eyes— _shit,_ John thinks again.

Sherlock crosses the room in two strides. He plants a hand on either side of John’s head, against the wall, and crashes their lips together.

John’s train of thought goes up in flames. It’s all he can do to suck in a short, surprised breath, before his mind dissolves.

It’s clear neither one of them have experience, but what they lack there they make up in eagerness—which is a stupendous understatement.

Sherlock kisses him like a command, lips impatient and demanding. His hands come off the wall to run all over John, urgently, here and there, scurrying down his sides then back up, glancing touches at his cheeks, his nose, running a thumb along his eyebrows. His fingers send hot spikes of electricity shooting across his skin.

John has lost every single aspect of his mind and is responding only by instinct, which is to _kiss him back as hard as you fucking can._ His hands surge up; one shoves through damp black curls and the other cups Sherlock’s face.

Sherlock makes a small, desperate noise and tilts his head further, deeper. To the left, and John’s neck aches at the slightly uncomfortable position but he doesn’t give a single fuck.

It’s impossible, is all John can think with the smithereens of his thoughts. It’s too much, it can’t be real. But it is; Sherlock Holmes is kissing him like his life depended on it and John was doing just the same. _Oh, my God._

How long this goes on, John has absolutely no clue. Sherlock's lips and his hands are the only things he can think, feel.

Eventually, Sherlock stops but doesn’t pull away. John is in too much euphoria to open his eyes.

“I take it back,” Sherlock murmurs in a low voice, so close their lips brush together.

John can feel that unbelievable baritone vibrate against his chest and he shivers. “Take what back?” he asks, his voice hoarse.

“You are excellent at compliments.”

John laughs but it’s cut off as Sherlock kisses him again with a renewed fervour. John doesn't know how he made it sixteen years without this; God knows how he managed to survive without Sherlock, Sherlock and his bloody deductions and cheekbones and kisses. He reciprocates the kiss more frantically than he thought was possible.

Sherlock sweeps his tongue across John’s lower lip and the world spirals, and then Sherlock gently tugs with his teeth and John’s knees give away.

Except he doesn’t fall. Sherlock’s body is flush against his and still trying to get closer, pressing John against the wall. It pins him in place, Sherlock is an anchor to the hazy chaos in his head.

He can feel Sherlock’s heartbeat as a thud against his chest, so fast it's a flutter, and at first he is alarmed at how fast it is going, but then he hears his own heart pounding in his ears and realises he is the same.

Long, warm fingers find a spot in John’s neck, presses, and a flash of lightning flares up, racing down his spine as he gasps. _Oh, hell!_ It’s too much and nearly not enough.

He places a shaking hand between their chests. Sherlock pulls back and John slides to the floor, breathing heavily. Sherlock kneels down with him.

John looks at the other and the urge to close off the (useless, hateful) space between them becomes unbearable.

Sherlock is completely debauched. His hair is dishevelled, the immaculately-pressed robe is wrinkled, the collar rumpled and turned up. And his lips— _lord help me_. John wonders if this is what it's like to be intoxicated—but no, it can't possibly match this.

He places his hands on Sherlock's chest and can actually feel the pulse stutter and speed up. Their eyes meet, and John's own pulse turns identical to Sherlock's.

At first, those blue-grey-green-whatever-the-hell-colour-it-is eyes appear to be black. Then John sees a thin ring of that colour on the very outside of the iris and realises those are his pupils.

"Alright?" Sherlock whispers, his voice a rumble that John aches to feel against his chest again.

“Yeah.” John can't seem to catch his breath. “Yeah. Just—” he lets out a breathy laugh. “If you kept going then, I think I would’ve fainted.”

Sherlock’s smiles, hazy and amazed and very, very happy.

“I’m not entirely sure that’s possible,” he muses. “But I will try some time.”

John’s circulatory system is having quite the workout. You’d think the butterflies in his stomach would be tired of partying so rambunctiously by now.

He bites his lip and studies Sherlock again. The tide of surprise is beginning to gently subside, being replaced by a giddy, lightheaded sense of wonder.

Did they just do that?

“Yes, we did,” Sherlock hums.

Did he say that out loud?

“No, you didn’t.”

What the fuck?

“It’s quite simple to deduct your thoughts, John.”

John’s eyes narrow. He blasts _Toxic_ by Britney Spears inside his head.

“Hm.” Sherlock pauses for a second. “A muggle pop song." Another pause. "About relationships."

“Oh, fuck off!” John opens his eyes to glare at Sherlock, although he isn’t sure it has the full effect when he’s cross-eyed.

“You tried thinking of something irrelevant and spontaneous,” Sherlock explains. “This is usually in the form of a song or catchphrase, but you do not usually express catchphrases and you often hum songs, muggle songs, that are in the genre of Pop. Your subconsciousness would obviously direct you to one about relationships.”

John is quiet for a few seconds, and then he kisses Sherlock on the nose. Sherlock flushes beautifully and his lips curve into a small, shy smile.

“There’s one thing I need clarification on,” Sherlock says afterwards. He raises his head and, almost unconsciously, rubs their noses together (John’s insides feel like melted chocolate). “Why did you regret kissing me at the lake?”

“Oh, God.” John sighs. “Yeah. Um, maybe because you literally told me you thought sentiment was a chemical defect?”

“Yes.” Sherlock frowns. “And?”

“I thought you didn’t want anything more than a platonic friend.”

Sherlock is looking at John like he had just suggested him to actually go to his classes. And, yes, John knew exactly what that looked like.

“I didn’t know you were _this_ much of an imbecile,” Sherlock declares. He keeps talking before John can say anything. “I take you on cases. I show you my experiments. I _played with your hair._ I willingly let you touch me and display affection! The fact that you enjoy being with me already makes me impossibly intrigued by you, and the longer we were together for, the more attraction I felt. The only thing that held me back was the conviction I held that you did not reciprocate my feelings."

John laughs with astonishment and rests their foreheads together. "Do you still have that conviction?"

Sherlock hums. “Not really. I am ninety-seven percent sure you wish to be more than platonic.”

"We just snogged! What the hell is that three percent?!"

“Six scenarios and outcomes,” Sherlock says. He suddenly looks dubious. “Do you happen to have a tiny bomb strapped to your leg?

John looks bewildered for a second, and then he laughs and loosely wraps his arms around Sherlock’s neck. “No, I do not. Christ, Sherlock, I had a crush on you the first time we met. I like you—I love you. A hundred percent.”

Sherlock’s mouth hangs slightly open. His eyes are bright and blinding. "Why didn't you tell me?"

“I kissed you at the lake! That's more than you did!"

"You apologised profusely and ran away," Sherlock repeats.

John stammers a bit. “You _recoiled._ You looked _disgusted.”_

“Blasphemy!” And, for God’s sake, Sherlock actually said that, and a bout of giggles rise up in John.

“I _recoiled_ because of the shock, and I most certainly did not look _disgusted.”_ His voice turns on a slightly more serious tone. “The case was a dud from the beginning. The girl faked it. However, I saw the fact the the wand was indeed in the lake as a chance to—”

“I don’t care about the bloody case!” John laughs, a bit hysterically. Then he freezes. “Wait. The wand was in the lake?”

“Yes, and—”

“Don’t say you fell into the lake on purpose.”

Sherlock opens his mouth and closes it again.

_“Bloody hell, Sherlock!”_

John wants to punch him. “You—you cock!” He sputters. “I can’t bloody believe it. You nearly drowned! Why?”

“For you to learn a nonverbal spell.”

_“What the fuck?!”_

Sherlock stares at John for a long time. “I don’t know what I need to elaborate on.”

John looks at Sherlock for even longer. He casts his eyes up to the ceiling and lets out a single, sudden, abrupt scream.

Sherlock blinks, slightly alarmed. “Are you alright?”

 _“No.”_ John says pointedly. “I have no bloody clue what the _bloody fuck_ is going on. To sum it up: we both like each other. Correct?”

“Is that really a question you need to ask?” Sherlock says, incredulous and exasperated.

“Shut up,” John mutters with a smile. “What happened to all that chemical defect?”

“While it is true that I identify as asexual, I find acts of intimacy with you and romance that does not cross that line incredibly pleasant. While it is true that sentiment highly affects my logical reasoning, it is extremely pleasurable and leads to a significant increase in dopamine, endorphins, and serotonin, which I am beginning to think is better than cocaine.”

“I have no idea what you just said.”

Sherlock smiles softly. “I am saying, John, that I love you too.”

“That’s all you needed to say, you twat.” John thinks his heart is going to explode. He leans in and kisses him again.

He’d like to say it was the perfect kiss, that, after the wild, frantic one today, that this was the one that counted the most, the sweetest and most meaningful. He’d like to say fireworks went off in the background while orchestra music crescendoed to an apex, he’d like to say they were both the best kissers in the school and it was flawless. But he always had an overactive imagination.

Without Sherlock crowding him to the wall, John naturally turned his head to the right while Sherlock did left, and they bumped noses and they both turned their heads to the other side, and Sherlock pulled away demanding to secure a side, and then said, actually, why don’t they secure everything else while they’re at it, and pulled out a notebook and began drawing diagrams. John bore with this for about ten seconds before he smacked the notebook and pen out of Sherlock’s hands and yelled, _just kiss me goddammit._

They bumped noses again and Sherlock grabbed John’s face and gently but firmly turned it to the left. It seemed that, after the first waves of _holy shit this is happening holy shit_ (which frankly John felt he was still riding on), Sherlock approached kissing like he did everything else: methodical and meticulous, like a science. He pulled away at times, murmuring quick questions, was it okay, how was the pressure (what?), and John would laugh and reassure him that it was fine.

Which was a mistake, as Sherlock immediately declared that _fine_ was a word to describe things that were neutral-at-best and was generally used passive-aggressively, and that was definitely _not fine_. Exasperated, John conceded that it was perfect, in which Sherlock expressed his satisfaction by kissing him again.

They didn’t come out for a while, and when they did John had missed lunch, a Potions lesson, and a mock exam for History. Sherlock reassured him that he would be “fine” _(touch_ _é_ _, John_ — _you’ll be perfect, how’s that)_ , and that he was sure John would achieve Exceeding Expectations on everything except Care of Magical Creatures (Acceptable), and that he was sure he could cast a Patronus now (he could).

Sometime thereafter John pulled out the wand which was in his back pocket the entire time. He admitted that he had it the whole time, but, Christ, was he glad he didn’t use it. Sherlock merely smiled upon seeing it and commented that he always knew it was there. John never found out if he was lying or not.

Irene “coincidentally” saw them as they walked down the hallway, and she raised an eyebrow at Sherlock, who gave her a begrudging and concise, but genuine, “thank you”.

In a way, in a quirky, Sherlock-esque way, it was perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After thirty-four chapters. Yep.  
> And now there's only two chapters left.


	35. O.W.L. Be Yours

His teeth were brushed, his pyjamas were changed into, and a scented candle (“summer breeze”—what the heck was that supposed to smell like? It just smelled like flowers) flickered at the corner of his desk. Pen and highlighter in hand, John sat down in front of half a dozen open textbooks, fully determined and committed to staying up the entire night.

Right.

Without a word, Mike watched as John furiously highlighted an entire page of Goblin riot leader names. He chuckled. “I’ll see you in the morning?”

John raised the textbook up in the air and stared at the fluorescent yellow for three seconds, and then promptly slammed it shut and grabbed a different one from the desk. Mike cocked his head, noticed the little plugs in John’s ear, then shrugged and went to bed.

It wasn’t like John completely ignored all the information he was currently studying until this very last minute, but right now, he couldn’t recall a single name, date, or place. He wasn’t sure if he actually didn’t know, or if it was just his brain demanding sleep and refusing to cooperate.

His parents had little quizzes, sure, and the occasional “exam”, but these O.W.L.s were like the GCSE of wizards, and from the little knowledge he had from the internet and from his parents’ friends who brought their children with them (resulting in hours of sneaking glances at the other teenager, awkward palpable silences through their parents’ casual chatter), it was a big deal.

His “ _STAY AWAKE”_ playlist blaring through his earbuds, John read a chapter on the formation of the Ministry of Magic that he had read three times already. He saw every word, every line, saying them in his head, even mouthing them under his breath, and yet this proved to be completely utterly useless when John realised he didn’t absorb a single smidge of new information.

He sighed, stretched his arms to the air, opened his mouth—he froze. _Don’t yawn, don’t yawn._

He yawned. _Dammit!_

 _Don’t fall asleep_ — _wait, no. Fall asleep! Sleep!_

After a couple rounds of going back and forth like this with reverse-reverse-reverse-etc… psychology, John had done nothing but made himself hopelessly confused.

 _You know what, screw History._ He pushed the textbook away and took out his/Sherlock’s/their wand, and began turning his pens into feathers and paintbrushes.

A paintbrush turned to a q-tip and then a cotton ball and then a bigger wad of fluff until he had successfully transfigured it into a pillow. Wait no. Shit!

He grabbed it and flung it to the floor. He groaned quietly.

Tomorrow—no, _today_ —was the first day of the exams. His first ever “actual” exams, in fact, and John was getting horribly frazzled and stressed, because he was pretty much using both his and Sherlock’s magic combined, it was like he was doing both his and Sherlock’s exam, and Sherlock had helped him study so much and if he _failed_ this oh _God_ —

A hand fell onto his shoulder.

John yelped, and then cast a worried glance at Mike, who was still sleeping soundly. There seemed to be a thin sort of barrier around him, which John came to the conclusion of it most likely being a soundproofing dome, but still he felt the urge to whisper, albeit angrily, at the intruder, whom he really should have known already.

“Sherlock?” he hissed quietly. “It’s like three in the morning!”

“One fifty-three,” Sherlock responded, reaching out and pulling John to his feet, which John allowed without complaint, although he really shouldn’t have. “You should sleep.”

John blinked. “I’ll be fine. I mean—I’ll be alright.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. The word _luminosity_ popped into John’s mind.

“Sleep will boost your thinking abilities and enhance your performance.”

John crossed his arms. “Why don’t you ever do it, then?”

“I don’t need sleep.”

“Well I don’t either.”

“Yes you do.”

“No I don’t.”

An exasperated smile tugging at his lips, Sherlock brought his arms down around John and drew him close. “Your pulse has been above average for the entirety of four hours. You need to rest.”

Pulse speeding up again, John mumbled something incomprehensible as he surrendered his weak struggle and sunk into the other’s arms. “But what if—”

He could _hear_ the eye roll. “You will not fail.”

“I—”

“We have been preparing for this since October. There is a five percent chance of you getting anything less than Acceptable, and that will grow into ten percent if you do not sleep in the next hour.”

John shut his mouth, searched his mind for another excuse, found nothing, and huffed.

“I won’t unless you do,” he finally said.

Sherlock hummed. “Alright.”

John paused, and looked up with disbelief. “Really?”

“Yes.” Sherlock nodded, and then put a hand on either of John’s shoulders and steered him to the direction of the bed. “Get some sleep, John, you need it.”

“So do you,” John retorted, climbing the ladder. He paused on the second step. “Wait. This isn’t going to work.” If Sherlock was going go all _Twilight_ and watch him sleep—sorry, but that was too much, even for him.

“Yes it will,” said Sherlock easily. “I promise that when you fall asleep I will return to my dormitory and sleep as well until seven in the morning.”

“Promise?” John was dubious. “You can’t just say you’ll do that.”

“I can and I will.”

“But what if—”

“John Watson, I will be in my dormitory and sleeping within five minutes of you doing so. I promise.”

“But—”

“I can make myself go to sleep, John, it’s quite simple.”

“Wha—” John blinked, and then declared, “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Well.” John had resumed climbing the ladder. He settled onto his bed and pulled the duvet over himself. “Only sometimes.”

Sherlock’s eyes peered up from the side of the bed (goddammit, he was so tall he just had to stand on his tiptoes).

“Go to sleep, John,” Sherlock said softly.

“I can’t just do that.” _Like you_ went unspoken. “I know there’s a potion, but I tried it before—”

“I know.”

“Of course you do.”

Mike had given it to him one night, insisting he’s had it many times and that it “works like a charm” (which John found hilariously ironic). John took one sip of the dark purple liquid and immediately vomited all over his bed.

Yeah, no, he’d rather stay up all night.

“So…” John drummed his fingers on the mattress.

Sherlock disappeared from the side of the bed. A couple of seconds later, John heard a slight plucking, and then a few soft notes drifted through the air.

“I will play for you,” Sherlock said.

John felt a flush creeping up his neck and he looked over the edge of his bed to Sherlock. “Oh, no, Sherlock, I won’t be able to sleep, I can’t make you do that. I tell myself to sleep but I can’t because I just constantly think about it, and I’ll feel even more guilty and I’ll worry about the exams and…” he trailed off, pouting.

“That’s alright.” The tune was unfamiliar, but slow and sweet. “I enjoy playing the violin, and the gratification is heightened when I am playing for you. I do not expect you to sleep before I finish this piece. Just listen.”

“I—” John pressed his lips together for a moment. He made a noise in his throat and gave up. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Sherlock echoed, and they fell into a silence only broken by the soft and simple melody.

John turned onto his side and watched over his bed the boy playing the violin. Sherlock’s eyes were on the instrument but upon John’s scrutiny they quickly flickered up _(luminous)._

God, it was surreal, so much so that John wondered if he really was dreaming, and that he had already fallen asleep. He turned so he was on his back, and closed his eyes.

Sherlock was the most interesting person—the most interesting anything, really—John had ever known. Hell, meeting him felt more otherworldly than discovering magic—which was literally another world. And now this extraordinary person was standing in his dorm and playing the violin.

John had gone through countless trips and cases, observed dozens of deductions, with Sherlock. They had been intertwined before they even knew it: John’s parents had created the spell of which Sherlock overheard, and used on Eurus, which, many many years later, John had been forced to use on Sherlock himself.

Sherlock, dangerous and unpredictable and so perfectly irresistible that John just had to fall in love.

“Sherlock?” he mumbled.

The playing didn’t stop. “Yes, John?”

“I am so utterly infatuated it’s ridiculous.”

A note stuttered slightly before smoothing out.

“It’s just…” John huffed. “I don’t know. I don’t know, I can’t really think properly, I’m talking to you like I would talk to myself, I guess it’s a good thing since that means I’m almost delirious so I’ll be sleeping soon, but now I’m thinking about it and I won’t be able to sleep and—sorry, that’s not what I wanted to say. Just. Meeting you was more of a big deal than finding out I’m a wizard. Listen to that. A bloody wizard, and you take priority.

“After we met, I told myself I wasn’t going to do this wishful thinking, because you’re Sherlock Holmes for God’s sake, there’s a word I know— _ethereal_ —and it’s… I guess it’s why I apologised after kissing you at the lake, because even now, even with you playing the violin to help me sleep for fuck’s sake, even now—it’s amazing, this, and you, and I don’t know what I did to get so lucky. Sorry. I’m rambling, I know I am, I’m sorry, I’ll try to sleep now.”

The playing had stopped.

“Um.” John opened his eyes and squirmed in his covers because all of a sudden it was way too hot. “Sorry, I’m just—”

Sherlock’s head popped up the side of the bed again.  “There must be something very, very wrong with you if you feel the need to apologise.”

John rolled over to face the other. “There’s no way I’ll be able to sleep,” he admitted.

“Yes there is.” And then there was a hand in his hair.

John flinched before his instincts decided to lean into the touch rather than pull away (which should have been disconcerting, but a lot of things were these days and he just set it aside as par for the course). “What are you doing?”

“Helping you sleep.”

John started, “You don’t have to—”

“I want to.”

It was too bloody hot in here.

Sherlock pressed the pad of his index finger against a spot on the back of John’s head, seemingly deliberately, and John yawned. He blinked. “What, you know pressure points?”

“Both literal and metaphorical,” said Sherlock with a smile.

John raised an eyebrow. “What are mine?”

“Here—” Sherlock touched a spot on John’s neck and it felt like his fingers were lightning. “And here—” another burst of tingles down his spine; if Sherlock was lightning, John’s skin was an excellent conductor. “And—”

“Right you can stop now.” John was simultaneously overheating and breaking out in goosebumps at the same time.

Sherlock smiled and went back to sweeping his hand over John’s hair, pushing specific spots that made him think, maybe sleep wasn’t going to be so hard. And normally this would’ve made him jolt back to wide awake, because his mind was so perfectly defenseless against reverse psychology—hell, normally he'd be blushing to the point of bursting into flames because SherlockBloodyHolmes was giving him a head massage—but somehow it didn’t, not this time. The combination of the music lingering in his ears and the gentle presses to his scalp made those bursts dissipate and fizz away. John concluded that Sherlock must be a wizard, even without magic.

“What about you?” John mumbled, eyes closed, after how long he didn’t know.

Sherlock understood without further explanation. “My nose. A couple areas on the neck and chest.”

“Aw.” John smiled. His mind sleepily grasped at final thin threads of thought. “Metaphorical?”

He heard a quiet rustle, and felt lips brush against his forehead, gentle and so soft he might've imagined it with his fading consciousness.

“You.”

Firm but gentle pressure to the spot on his scalp, and then they were withdrawing along with the kiss, and John found himself dissolved into sleep.

-+-+-+-

No one was surprised.

It was almost offensive, really—John’s life felt like it had been turned upside down and screamed at and shook over and over like a child to a goldfish in a plastic bag. His pulse was skyrocketing to absurd levels. His body was doggedly determined to get as close to Sherlock as possible. His mind was _SherlockSherlockSherlock_ and giddiness and kisses.

And then there was Mike Stanford, who had not just seemed unsurprised, but had _assumed they were a couple before this had happened._

And Molly Hooper, who smiled (only the barest twinge of sadness left) and cracked a feeble joke about love potions, which, from some bloody supernatural occurrence of a miracle, Sherlock laughed at.

Charles Milverton, who gave them a strange unreadable look through silver-rimmed glasses, and shook his head and said something about Irene doing a better job than him.

Irene Adler, who, without her intervention, Sherlock would most likely be dragging John someplace in Azkaban for his _Plan A (a.k.a. abso-fucking-lutely not)_.

But nope, not John Watson. He was completely floored, and he was expected to work on his O.W.L.s?

Apparently yes.

John pinched some moonstone powder on one hand as he stirred the cauldron with his other. He reached over, about to add it to the Nausea Potion.

 _“Add the moonstone powder_ — _”_

_“Okay,” said John, and added it. He was immediately grabbed and hauled to the other side of the room. The broomstick-on-a-string hit him on the shoulder._

_The resulting explosion was so loud, John’s ears were ringing for the next hour._

_With a wave of a hand the disaster was cleared away._

_Sherlock turned to John._ _“Add the moonstone powder,” he repeated, more firmly, “when the mixture turns mauve.”_

The memory freshly renewed in his mind, John withdrew his hand as if it had been stung. Five seconds of stirring later, the red turned to a pinkish-purple, and he let out a breath and sprinkled in the powder.

A deafening bang erupted from the side of the room, along with a scream and a curse.

John winced. _Phew._

-+-+-+-

Sherlock was waiting for him outside the door.

“I did it,” John said, wide-eyed and breathless. “Both the nonverbal and the patronus.”

Sherlock’s expression didn’t change as he grabbed the collar of John’s robe and kissed him against the hallway wall.

John was dimly aware of the students filing out the classroom, the chatter dwindling and then suddenly amplifying, peppered with gasps and raised eyebrows, low whistles.

“Sherlock,” John stammered, a hand on Sherlock’s chest (pulse so fast it was more of a vibration), “everyone’s—”

“Watching? Is that a problem?” Sherlock dipped his head down to John’s neck.

John couldn’t respond. He didn’t think he could speak at all. Bloody hell, he didn’t think he could _stand._

“Are you embarrassed? Ashamed? Of me, John?”

Sherlock moved back up and leaned their foreheads together, eyes too close to focus on but electric blue and glittering and horribly, horribly intense. John managed to shake his head.

“Then,” Sherlock murmured, pushing back a lock of John’s hair, “I don’t see the problem.”

John paused for a moment, and then his hands raised to Sherlock’s face and he tilted his head to the left and closed the distance between them. The people watching gave a little raucous cheer and Sherlock made a pleased little rumbling noise and John didn’t see the problem either.

-+-+-+-

The butterflies in his mind palace must have fluttered off their boards. Hundreds of glittering specimens, darting about in his mind and scattering his thoughts, before diving down his spinal cord, congregating in his torso. Rhopalocera in a wide-spread monarch migration.

When John brushed his hand against Sherlock’s as they walked down a hallway, they erupted into a frenzied dance, minuscule Pygmy Blues shooting down his fingers, tickling his ribs, petal-soft wings beating against his stomach, as Sherlock without a moment’s hesitation caught John’s hand (clammy but he didn’t care, cold but he would make it warm) and held it tight.

When John sat down to dinner and Sherlock was already there, they gave a glimmering quiver of anticipation, as he took John’s face in his hands and they swooped through his veins, feverish, Swallowtails and Skippers flitting about his ribs and caressing his heart, as he kissed him, gently, softly, because he was something precious.

How was it that he didn’t realise, didn’t even _think,_ that this, John, him and his dreadful and utterly endearing puns and humour defense mechanism, his verdigris eyes and the bashful way he lowered them when Sherlock looked at him, completed him as a whole?

He scoffed at Astronomy as it did no benefit to him and his work, and yet there must have been some alignment of sorts, some kind of splendid syzygy _(serendipity)_ for John to come colliding into his life, for their lines to intertwine such.

It must have been awful, to think that he hadn’t had this before. He couldn’t even remember; what was life before John?

He couldn’t _think,_ there was nothing on his mind that couldn’t be dissipated with _him,_ and he couldn’t stop himself, couldn’t keep himself from reaching for a hand to hold or lips to kiss or arms to encase him in a tight embrace. There must be some force at work, positive and negative electrons searching for a bond, for Sherlock to be in such a state of limerence, to be so _drawn._

And, _Merlin,_ it was alarming, wasn’t it, it was dangerous, this mindset and these thoughts and these actions, but they simply wouldn’t stay under control.

Pressure points. Sherlock found a good, compelling case impossible to resist, but John took priority, somehow managed to rule supremacy. Previously, hubris was inevitable, insurmountable, and yet Eurus had watched as John stole away with Sherlock's magic, forced to do so by Sherlock himself. Heady, intoxicating bliss from a needle, and it was all swept away and forgotten with John, natural chemicals replacing the synthetic drugs.

Love was dangerous, deadly, and corrupting.

But it was laughter, spontaneous giggles and dramatic eye rolls; it was the rush of endorphins like a freshly uncovered case, puzzle pieces clicking together in an instant. From the brief and impromptu kisses snuck between classes, to the frantic and desperate, tousled hair and wild eyes; the ones to cherish, soft and slow and sweet. Arms around each other, head against chest, able to hear the racing heartbeat. Being held, enveloped in warmth and comfort—like home, hiraeth evanescing.

Sherlock wanted _order, precision, fact._ But love wasn’t an exact, specific, solid definition—it was a loose suggestion, an idea, a spectrum that varied, shifted and evolved, defined by change.

It was so _different,_ unpredictable—but that was why it was so addicting.

Why, Sherlock wondered as his butterflies twirled in a steady oscillation, did others view substance use as such atrocity, when this was clearly so much stronger, so potent and vicious?

-+-+-+-

“Butterflies,” Sherlock murmured, brushing his lips over John’s nose, under his eyes, his forehead.

John felt like one of those woman in old soap operas when they see a rat—flushed, shivering, and about to swoon. “Butterflies?”

“They’re inside me,” Sherlock responded, soft lips and warm breath against the bridge of John’s nose. “Darting about. Around my liver and through my ribs.” He weaved his hand through John’s hair, pulling back slightly, and looked at him with extraordinary intent. “Trembling against my skin.”

John had a brief moment where he drew a blank, wondering if Sherlock was describing a medical procedure or something of the sort. Then, he exhaled a shaky laugh. “Brilliant,” he muttered, not capable of thinking much else, and leaned in to kiss the tip of Sherlock’s nose.

Sherlock’s eyes were wide and bright and so bewildered. John felt a sudden twinge of longing he could not fully understand, and dropped his head down into the other’s chest.

Sherlock held him close and gave a quiet contented sigh, a sound John had never thought to hear from someone like him. He kissed John’s ear. “Logic states that you should be heading for the History classroom for your written exam, and yet I do not wish to let you go. My reasoning is severely impaired, single-minded and blurred with _want,_ and it is further alarming as I do not seem to mind.”

John closed his eyes, beneath his hands the bumps of Sherlock’s spine and the steady thrum of life. Sherlock hummed, serene and trusting.

“I hope you never talk like a normal teenager,” John declared into Sherlock’s shirt.

“Boring,” Sherlock announced amicably, and John giggled and nestled himself into a warm bundle, wondering what he had done to deserve such a thing.

Love. Who would’ve thought?

And of all people: John Watson and Sherlock Holmes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um, pure self-indulgent fluff. Literally that's it.  
> One more chapter to go!


	36. All Was Well

John paced back and forth, thrice, not looking at the soon-to-be-door but at Sherlock—and with more than a little apprehension, too.

“It’s a bit messy,” he confessed. The door appeared, and he bit his lip. “Just… be respectful.”

Sherlock nodded and entered the room.

John watched Sherlock walk in before him, and, sighing, followed.

The room immediately silenced with their appearance, but if Sherlock noticed he didn’t seem to mind.

“Do you like it?” John blurted out.

“John.” Sherlock gave John an exasperated smile, the _oh you wonderful sweet idiot_ look. “I made it.”

“Oh.” John put a hand to his forehead. “Right. Well, I mean, I guess we can watch something?”

They walked over to the side table beside the tv. A dvd was placed at the front. Sherlock picked it up.

His eyebrows lifted. He turned to John.

“Shall we watch this?” he suggested mildly.

John immediately blanched.

“Oh, my God. No. Nope.” He reached for the cover, but Sherlock turned it away from him, almost in a distracted manner. John looked to the floor and blew out a breath, eyes wide. “We are never ever watching that. Ever.”

“Congratulations, John,” Sherlock said absentmindedly. “You’re being redundant.” He flipped it over, and his eye twitched. “Is this an accurate depiction of the muggle world?”

“No, oh God, please, no,” John stammered, desperately reaching for the dvd, which Sherlock was now holding _up_ , surveying it from above.

“I’m not sure if this is physically possible,” Sherlock mused. “Sepsis would be inevitable. But if the liver—”

“No!” John jumped up and snatched the cover out of Sherlock’s hands. He let out an uncontrollable, hysterical giggle as he tossed it back onto the shelf. He quickly grabbed Sherlock’s hand and marched them away.

His eyes caught two people sitting on the couch. “Hi,” he said weakly.

The girl, Lavender, furrowed her eyebrows at John. The boy, Keto, looked at him and jerked his head to Sherlock. John nodded very slightly, shrugged once, and then darted his eyes over to the dvd shelf and raised his eyebrows. Keto made a face and shrugged. Lavender mimed sticking a finger down her throat.

John smiled and tilted his head to Sherlock. The other two nodded and smiled back.

“Oh, do you—” John suddenly said, turning to Sherlock.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and gave John a small smile.

“Ok,” said John, not really understanding what had just happened. He looked around, and then tugged Sherlock towards the reading table in the middle of the room.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go introduce yourself.”

“Like I’d need to do that,” Sherlock scoffed.

-+-+-+-

The Gryffindors won the Quidditch Cup. Sherlock had showed up to the final game, and screamed at John about the wind force and Quaffles and battering angles. When the Slytherin Seeker suddenly swooped down low, a hand outstretched, Sherlock ran over and shouted something as he passed—something that made the Seeker stop dead in his tracks, turn his broomstick around, and attempt to ram it into Sherlock (who had long dissolved into the crowd by then).

The Slytherins, despite not winning Quidditch, did, however, win the House Cup—Sherlock sulked and pouted for an hour. Apparently, bribing/threatening/blackmailing various professors was the opposite of beneficial.

The final Feast was absolutely delightful. At one point John snuck away from the table and over to Peeves, who was hovering near a corner, and charmed a bucket of spiders to fall over the poltergeist. This did not accomplish much as they simply fell through him and onto the floor, but the look on Peeves’ face was well worth it. John attempted a sip of Sherlock’s strange concoction/drink, and was absolutely floored by how utterly amazing it was. Sherlock pointed out that the oatmeal cookies now contained the correct amount of baking soda.

That night, Anderson walked in on the Muggle Club furiously battling Sherlock in Mario Kart, and losing horrendously. This was mostly because of Sherlock’s version of trash talking—a mix of rapid fire deductions, insults, and banter. John suggested they play DDR instead, in which Sherlock immediately grabbed it and ran off to read a thick, dusty book while sitting on the disk.

Anderson watched all this with a slightly confused smile, and then called Sherlock out into the hallway.

Sherlock came back beaming. He made a beeline for John and snogged him on the sofa.

Anderson had revealed to him John’s O.W.L. scores, Sherlock explained between kisses, and they were all Outstanding, and Sherlock was to stay at Hogwarts: working on the Muggle Club, aiding the Muggle Studies professor, and continuing to tutor John.

“An obvious excuse,” Sherlock said. “This was Mycroft’s doing.” And for once, he said his brother’s name without malice or spite or mock.

People came and went through the Room of Requirement. They ended up surrounding the big-screen tv, watching horror movies until past midnight. Little by little, they dozed into sleep, draped across squashy armchairs and sofas. John snuggled into a sleeping bag for about five minutes before completely giving up. He binge-watched an entire season of a tv show until 3am, when Sherlock plopped himself down beside him—or, more accurately, practically on him—and insisted they watch The Human Centipede.

John spent three-quarters of the movie with his face buried in Sherlock’s chest. He laughed for some and cried the rest.

-+-+-+-

The train steadily rumbled on with its clicks and bumps.

Sherlock glanced at the window for a few seconds.

“The train will be arriving in London at around four,” he declared.

John squinted at the flashes of telephone poles and trees. “I still don’t know how you do that.”

“Maths.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“The poles are fifty metres apart.”

“That doesn’t, either.”

“Oh, fine.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I could see how long it takes for each pole to flash across the window, and then convert seconds and hours and metres and kilometres.”

“Really?” John furrowed his brow. “Wow.”

“Or I could just know the schedule of the Hogwarts Express.”

A beat.

John groaned. He punched Sherlock on the shoulder. “You bastard!”

“Obviously, I could do the math if I wanted to,” Sherlock said with a straight face.

“Oh, of course you could.” John was giggling. “I thought you were some insane human calculator or something.”

Sherlock smiled. John sighed, and leaned his head on the other’s shoulder. Sherlock lazily drew an arm around him and closed his eyes.

“John,” he started, “I am extremely disappointed in myself.”

John turned his head, frowning. Sherlock continued.

“I fail to see why I did not realise earlier how infatuated I am, and why I did not, as you say, make a move, earlier on. How could I have not known?”

Sherlock squirmed closer and rubbed his cheek against John’s hair, like an sodding cat—an overgrown Andromeda, John thought, and ran his fingers through Sherlock’s curls.

“Hogwarts isn’t always like this,” Sherlock murmured. “If you had been with anyone but me.”

John shrugged. “I think it’s pretty normal,” he said casually.

Sherlock scoffed. “Nothing’s ever _normal.”_

“No. But I like it that way.” John leaned over to kiss Sherlock on the cheek and Sherlock turned his head to catch his mouth instead. John let him.

“Mrs. Hudson’s here,” Sherlock murmured, and sighed against John’s lips. “She has atrocious timing.”

John laughed and pulled back, but didn’t move from Sherlock’s arms.

A couple of seconds later there was a faint rattling of a cart, and a knock on the door.

“Come in,” Sherlock called out.

Mrs. Hudson, looking the same as John remembered (perhaps just a few more gray hairs) toddled in.

“Afternoon, Sherlock,” she said easily. Her eyes caught John, him leaning on Sherlock’s shoulder with their arms around each other, and she beamed with delight.

“Ah—now what did I tell you!” she exclaimed, pointing a finger at the two.

“It seems,” Sherlock responded, “like you were indeed correct.”

“Oh, Sherlock, dear, I’m never wrong about these things.”

Sherlock bought a box of Every-Flavour Beans, and as Mrs. Hudson was about to leave, he suddenly spoke up.

“Mrs. Hudson,” he said, “I assume Mycroft has paid the rent?”

“Oh!” She nodded. “Yes, he did, although I insisted that it was fine if he didn’t—honestly, Sherlock, you’re welcome at Baker Street any time.”

“And my baggage?”

“I’ll take it to the flat for you, don’t you worry.”

John blinked. “Sorry, what?”

“Come now, John,” said Sherlock, smiling, “I’m sure you can deduce what is happening.”

“Sherlock asked me about a month ago,” said Mrs. Hudson. “I said yes, of course, with all that’s happened this year, and with Sherlock… It’s really quite cozy, and a wonderful little home.”

“Yes, anyways.” Sherlock passed the box of Every-Flavour-Beans to John. “I told you I had everything sorted out. Ta, Mrs. Hudson.”

“See you, Sherlock.” Mrs. Hudson wheeled the cart out the door.

John fiddled with the box of beans, glancing at Sherlock warily. “So. Baker Street?” He recalled the name somewhere. “Central London? Not… a magical neighbourhood?”

“221b Baker Street,” responded Sherlock. “Mrs. Hudson enjoys the muggle world. It doesn’t hurt that she is having an affair with her neighbour.”

John gave a little incredulous shout and Sherlock grinned.

“Well,” said John, with a tone that said _we are never talking about that again._ “Any plans for the summer in your 221b Baker Street?”

“Perhaps some cases from the Ministry; it would benefit Mycroft greatly to have a connection with someone in the muggle world.”

John finally ventured to ask the real question. "Do you really have to do this? You really can’t—your parents—”

“First I make Eurus a Squib and then I do it to myself?” A humourless smile. “Mycroft joined the Ministry when he was sixteen. I suppose I beat him.”

“Christ, Sherlock,” John said. “This is—you’re fifteen, goddammit! You should be worrying about school and homework and browsing Tumblr, not… _this!”_

Sherlock responded easily, “Judging the knowledge and experiences of a person by how many years they’ve been alive for is quite subjective.”

“I mean—what?—I _guess,_ but.” John huffed. “It’s just not on, is it?”

“Subjective.”

“Oh, sod off.”

They ate—well—John ate, Sherlock watched until John forced-fed him a bean which Sherlock insisted was Earwax (it was).

When the box was finished, Sherlock stood up. He walked over to the seats across from them and bent over. He reappeared with his violin.

Drawing the bow across the strings, he coaxed out a tune that brought up a wave of nostalgia: the floating violin, the owl pellet attack, the chase across the train that led to nothing but three terrified first years. As the melody floated out, quiet and comforting, John rested his head on his hands and smiled.

"I’m going to visit you so much I might as well be living there."

Not pausing, Sherlock replied. "I have no doubt that you will."

“I’m going to take you skiing.” John grinned. “And camping. And snorkeling.”

Sherlock smiled. “I would like that very much.”

And with that the soft violin lullaby was all that could be heard.

Drawing out the last measures of the song, Sherlock exhaled, all the tension seemingly seeping away, disappearing along with the final note.

He paused for a moment, and then began another—sending John back to another memory, of another birthday, ice cream in fancy goblets and prancing blue hippogriffs.

And it was different this time. _Pianissimo_ trills and ornaments, small variations on the original tune. And John hadn’t thought it possible for it to be more stunning.

John wondered how often he had cried in the past ten months. Surely an alarming number.

When the piece was finished John stood up, silently took the violin from Sherlock, and hugged him fiercely, with everything he had.

Sherlock did the same.

-+-+-+-

John’s suitcase bumped into corners and crevices as he maneuvered the bustling crowds of Kings Cross station.

"Ah, just pick it up," suggested Sherlock as the suitcase collided with a small white dog, sending it into a manic series of yaps.

Sherlock drew his gaze over its owner as John apologised profusely.

"Coco is not improving your chances with her veterinarian,” Sherlock said gently. “In fact, it’s making it worse."

“What?” the man said gruffly, before fully processing Sherlock’s words and turning beet red. “WHAT?!”

John winced, took Sherlock’s hand, and pulled him away from the crowds and into a corner.

“Please try to restrain yourself,” John said quietly, once they were relatively safe from any possible victims to Sherlock’s deductions.

Sherlock scowled. “It was merely—”

_“John!”_

John jerked his head to the voice, and saw a vast moving sea of heads.

_“John Watson!”_

He saw a flurry of hands, and then his mother’s head peeked over and above the ocean of people.

“Mum!” John shouted back. His mother attempted to gesture something, lost her balance on the bench she was standing on, and toppled over, back into the swarm. John laughed, and stood on his tiptoes, trying to spot her again.

“You’re staying, by the way,” he hissed at Sherlock. “At least until dinner.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off by an ear-piercing shriek.

 _“JOHN WATSON!”_ her mother screamed as she barrelled into the boy.

Finding himself being squeezed to the point of a Heimlich, John made an embarrassing squeaking noise before laughing and hugging back just as tight. “Hi, mum.”

“Have you been using growth potions?” his father said quizzically, ruffling John’s hair. John laughed and ducked his head away.

John’s mother caught the other boy, leaning against the wall, and she gasped.

“You must be Sherlock!” she gushed. “Oh, my, you’re tall!”

Sherlock tilted his head. “I take the advantage of a long wizarding robe and a short boyfriend.”

John made a noise of protest and Sherlock grinned, stepping out, drawing an arm around him and pulling him close to his side, placing a kiss on the top of his head.

Sherlock extended a hand. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Watson.”

John’s mother, previously beaming, frowned. “Oh, no,” she said firmly, “that’s not going to work.”

In an instant, she had reached out and grabbed the boy in a constricting embrace John knew all too well.

“Sherlock Holmes!” she said in nothing short of a squeal. “John’s told me so much about you!” She pulled back and grinned at Sherlock, who all of a sudden looked rather dazed. “Too much, honestly. All he does is talk about you, on and on and on—Sherlock this, Sherlock that—”

 _“He’s so brilliant!”_ his father chortled.

“Not to mention,” added his mother with a wink, “good looking.”

John was going to burst into flames.

Sherlock, his previous daze evaporating completely, raised an eyebrow at John and smirked. “Really, John? I’m flattered.”

John covered his face with his hands and let out a muffled scream.

Her mother reached out and flicked John on the ear. “Not your boyfriend? Please, John, we knew you fancied him from the start, my God, it was _painful!_ And you say you _just_ got together?”

Sherlock coughed. “I will confess it is partly my fault. John had displayed typical signs of infatuation, however I had failed to acknowledge them—for what reason, I do not know anymore.”

His father slapped Sherlock on the back. “John was right!” He chuckled. “You do speak like a… what did you say, John, an old-timey fancy person?”

“I did not say that,” John muttered as Sherlock gave John a horrified look.

“Come on, then!” His mother clapped her hands. “Sherlock, you must tell us everything. Where are your parents?”

Sherlock gave John a look and John shrugged weakly, like _how could I explain?_

“They’re… not present at the moment,” Sherlock offered.

John’s parents gave John a questioning look and John shrugged, even more weakly. “Which is why you should stay and explain,” he suggested hopefully.

“Come for dinner,” urged his mother. “I’ll make my peanut butter pasta.”

Sherlock looked intrigued. “That sounds eccentric.”

“Old-timey fancy person,” John said under his breath. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“So, what do you think?” said John’s father.

There was a pause.

“Alright,” Sherlock said. John beamed, his father whooped, and his mother hugged Sherlock again.

They began walking to the doors.

“So, Sherlock,” said John’s mother. “Do you really do the… thing?”

Everyone knew what he meant. Sherlock glanced her over and John bit his lip, equal parts anticipation and worry.

“You have baked oatmeal cookies before you came over, but you burnt them and went to Tesco instead. You took a cab here this morning, and shopped around for a gift for John, but ultimately did not buy one as you already have at least three at home. You hid one with red foil wrapping in a houseplant.” John’s mother made a squeaking noise and Sherlock tilted his head. “Shall I go on?”

“Oh, my _lord,”_ she whispered.

John laughed and grabbed Sherlock and kissed him on the nose. “Fantastic,” he said.

Sherlock took this chance to reciprocate by brushing light kisses against John’s jaw. “Amazing,” he responded.

Then there was another squeaking noise, this time more of a squeal, and John blushed and looked at his parents who were wide-eyed and positively giddy, and Sherlock gave John a grin and then pulled him in completely.

His parents ended up awkwardly skimming a gossip magazine on a shelf.

John’s mind spun itself into a hazy daze, no less than the first time they properly kissed, a tingle of euphoria, mingled with sweetness and hope.

Perhaps Sherlock was a Squib. Perhaps his parents were alcoholic, and himself a recovering addict.

But they would figure it out. They have plenty of time.

Sherlock cupped John’s face and kissed his nose. Their eyes met for a moment, held each other, electric and humming with unspoken promises.

They walked through the automatic doors of the train station and out into the summer air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it!
> 
> First off: look at the word count!! I am immensely satisfied. I didn't even mean to do it until this last chapter.
> 
> Now about the ending: I knew I was stretching the story a bit during the last part of the story, and I didn't want to drag it on, and I wanted to finish it before summer ended.
> 
> So, sorry for getting them together with two chapters left. Really. (Honestly!)
> 
> And with that said: writing this story has been so, so, fun. I always get ideas for multi-chapter fics, and I was sort of like, why not? It's been so rewarding, and also a huge learning curve. (E.g. You really do need to plan out your story. I actually did write Sherlock's Plan-A-For-Azkaban—five thousand words, in fact, until I realised it didn't make any sense. Yeesh.)
> 
> Please, please, please, if you've enjoyed a single phrase or chapter or idea in this fic—leave a comment! It's totally fine if you're not comfortable with commenting, though—hey there, silent readers!—but please try. I would take "hi" and be happy for a day.
> 
> To everyone reading this, thank you, thank you, thank you. I love you so much. <3

**Author's Note:**

> Potterlock story I wrote on a whim, though it does have some sort of a plot now (or at least points).  
> Please take your time to maybe review? :)


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